Chinese Whispers
by r4ven3
Summary: Ruth is contacted by an old friend from her university days, and what he has to tell her has the potential to change her view of the person she cares about most. 19 chapters long. Warning: Themes of child abuse underpin this story.
1. Chapter 1

_**A/N: The plot/framework for this fic came from a "60 Minutes" story which aired on Australian TV on 19th July, 2015. Whilst I have based this story on what came out in that preliminary investigation, my own story is fictional, and all (non Spooks) characters are fictional, including the names of ministers in Margaret Thatcher's government.**_

 _ **I am rating this chapter M, chiefly for adult concepts.**_

* * *

Being back on the Grid was like diving into the ocean after not having been in the water for several years. Thinking of the ocean had him contemplating the last time he'd swum; it would have to have been the south coast of France in 2006, almost five years ago. He'd taken two weeks leave, planning to look for Ruth, but after wandering around Paris, hoping to see her on some street corner, in an art gallery or museum, or perhaps wandering by the Seine, he realised how foolish had been his plan. So he'd headed instead to Nice, where he'd swum, drank wine, wandered around the Old Town, ignoring other holiday makers, still hoping to find Ruth. When he'd arrived back on the Grid all he had to show for his break was a suntan and a trimmer physique.

He needed to visit Nice again some day. Maybe Ruth would agree to accompany him. Maybe not. Their drive back from the tribunal had been a quiet one, the few sentences spoken dripping out a few words at a time. Harry had interpreted Ruth's near silence as chastisement – chastisement for his taking risks, for handing a weapon of mass destruction to a desperate and unbalanced man, chastisement for valuing her life over and above the lives of many, chastisement for his overt display of love for her. On the other hand, her silence may have been embarrassment over what to say to him after their weeks apart. What does one say to someone who has so openly declared their feelings through their actions?

Harry felt most at home on the Grid. It was where he had experienced his greatest triumphs, and perhaps some of his lowest moments. The Grid had provided the oven in which he had been fired and honed and fully formed as a man. Whilst not proud of much of what he had done as a spy, he was proud of the man who had chosen to save Ruth's life. At the time he'd handed Albany to John Bateman, Harry had proved to himself that he loved Ruth more than he feared the inevitable repercussions emanating from that decision. He was (almost) a free man, so he was lucky. He had dodged a bullet, and deep inside himself he knew he had to once again work hard towards regaining Ruth's respect.

"I'm not worth that," she'd said as she'd settled into the front seat of his vehicle, looking straight ahead as he skilfully drove the Land Rover through the traffic. "You acted from your heart and not your head, Harry." He'd turned towards her then and held her gaze. As he saw it, acting from his heart only served to prove that inside his chest was a heart, hopefully beating in sync with Ruth's own heart. That was a good thing. Could Ruth not see that? He'd saved the news that Albany had been inoperable for another day.

Harry's first few days back on the Grid were frantic ones. He'd had to catch up with all that had happened in his absence as well as much of what was pending. Between Erin and Ruth he discovered that the situation was as normal, and that agents full time in the field were monitoring eight different groups whose potential for violence was considered worrying. The remaining junior field agents were moving between another fifty to sixty people who had been flagged as `potential threats'. In other words, it was business as usual.

During his first fortnight back at work Harry spent most of his time off Grid, chiefly in meetings, and it wasn't until late on his second Friday afternoon that he was free once more to return to the Grid. As he walked towards his office he glanced over at Ruth's desk to find her talking on her mobile phone, her face animated, her free hand moving through the air as she spoke. He sighed heavily as he sat down before glancing around the Grid. Towards the back of the Grid Erin and Dimitri were engaged in a deep and private discussion, while Tariq worked at his desk, his immediate environment temporarily beyond his conscious awareness. Harry kept his eye on Ruth until she ended her call. As she gathered together her bag and coat, searching her desk for anything else she may need, he quickly stood up and left his office, hoping to catch her before she left for the day. They had barely spoken during the two weeks he'd been back, and suddenly he desperately needed to be with her.

"Ruth," he said, stopping in front of her desk just as she stood to put on her coat.

"Is it important, Harry? I have to go. I'm meeting someone and he's on his way to my house as we speak."

"Right," he said, his spirits suddenly flagging. "It can wait."

"Perhaps you can call me at home …. if it's important. It's just that Jerry is a journalist and he needs to be somewhere else by eight …..." She quickly wrapped her scarf around her neck, and then she was gone, bustling across the floor towards the doors.

He watched her until she was out of sight and then he dropped his head and sighed heavily. That was that then. He had waited too long and now she had found someone else, which put a different slant on his Grand Gesture. In saving Ruth not only had he risked imprisonment, but he had also freed her to find someone else, someone more suitable, perhaps someone closer to her own age. He just hoped this Jerry would make her happy. While on enforced leave he had tried to shut out all thoughts of her, but while lying in bed in the dark each night she had filled every corner of his mind, creating a longing which bordered on being painful. When he'd made the decision to hand Albany over to John Bateman, Harry had told himself that he was liberating Ruth, so that she could live her life freely; the world needed her, and Ruth needed the world. Of course he'd been fooling himself. He'd wanted Ruth for himself, and now it was too late.

* * *

Ruth had only been home fifteen minutes when she heard a knock on her front door. She still lived in the flat she'd shared with Beth. She'd grown accustomed to the place. It had none of the spaciousness or the character of the house she'd lived in before she'd had to leave London to go into exile, but for a safe house it was better than most, with a roomy dining room off the living room, the rather old-fashioned kitchen taking up another corner of the living area. Over the past eighteen months Ruth had furnished it with things she liked, and to her it felt warm and familiar. She hurried down the short hallway to open the front door.

"I'd kill my own mother for a hot cup of coffee," Jerry said as he followed Ruth to the kitchen, his lanky frame towering over her.

"Coming up," she replied, pointing him to a chair at the round wooden dining table just off the kitchen. "How do you have it?"

"White, no sugar, hot enough to scald my tongue" he said, sitting at the table. "I hope you have a strong stomach," he added once Ruth joined him, placing mugs of coffee in front of each of them.

Ruth sat across from Jerry, holding her mug of coffee between her fingers, her elbows resting on the table. He was beginning to show signs of aging, but he still had the longest eye lashes she'd ever seen on a man. "You said on the phone that you've stumbled upon something ….. how did you describe it?"

"Hot enough to melt the pavement outside Parliament House." Jerry had placed a leather brief case on the table beside him. He reached inside it and drew out an electronic tablet. "On here," he said, his eyes on Ruth, "I have images which will change the way we see those in power in this country. Firstly the Catholic Church, and now … the British Government."

Ruth very carefully placed her coffee mug on a coaster, and then gave all her attention to Jerry. "I hope you haven't done anything stupid," she said. "I know how much you want to make a difference, Jerry, but you have to have evidence."

While she'd been speaking, Jeremy Nevill had turned on the tablet and scrolled through some images until he came to the one he wanted. Very carefully he placed the tablet flat on the table in front of him and looked across to where Ruth was frowning. "This … evidence is … explosive."

"But why me? We haven't spoken to one another in … at least six years, and I'm an intelligence analyst, not a newspaper editor. Perhaps you need to be talking to the police."

"In this instance, the police are on the other side of the law. They are involved in ways they'd rather the public not know about. Besides … I trust your judgement, Ruth. We were once ... something to one another."

"We went out for no more than six weeks, and after that we …."

"- enjoyed being friends with benefits."

Ruth sat back in her chair and folded her arms. "We were?" How could she have forgotten that?

"We-ell … maybe that's a slight exaggeration. We had sex maybe …"

"- around half a dozen times, Jerry. Why does our personal history matter? Everyone at university was shagging someone. It didn't mean anything back then."

"So it means something now?"

"I like to think so." Ruth was baffled by Jerry's segue into their personal liaison, which she only remembered as being a close friendship which continued for several years after they'd left university. She knew they'd had sex a few times, but it had been so unremarkable that she'd forgotten the details.

"What is this about? I haven't all night, and you have a meeting."

"A date actually."

"Well, good for you," Ruth was beginning to feel mildly annoyed.

"Her name is Amanda."

Ruth sighed heavily and widened her eyes, hoping to convey to Jerry her increasing irritation. Taking the hint, he looked down at the electronic tablet on the table in front of him and he woke it up, turned it and pushed it across the table until she could reach it. "Take a look at this. Take a close look."

Ruth placed her hands either side of the tablet and looked down at an image which had her drawing in her breath. "Bloody hell, Jerry. What is this?"

She lifted her eyes to him, and he pointed towards the tablet. "Come on, Ruth. Surely it hasn't been that long since you've seen one of those. Tell me what you see."

She dropped her eyes again, and since the initial shock had worn off she began to describe what she saw. "Well … the first thing I noticed was the bottom half of what is clearly a a man – a naked man – with an erection, sitting on the edge of a bed. It appears to me that he's … uncircumcised."

"Tell me more. I need to see it through your eyes."

"There's a hand about to touch his … penis … and …" Ruth took in an audible breath. "That's a child's hand. The child's body is mostly out of shot. I can't see enough of the child to determine if it's a girl or a boy, or … the child's age."

"It's a girl, Ruth. This girl," and Jerry pointed towards the tablet, "is now aged twenty-six, and she's talking." Ruth had seen enough. She pushed the tablet away, looking up at Jerry, who could see how disturbed she'd been by the image. Ruth Evershed had always been a sensitive soul, which was partly what had initially attracted him to her. Investigative journalism had deadened his senses, but fortunately not his ability to be outraged. "That photograph was taken in 1993. The girl's name is Melanie, and at the time of this incident she was eight years old. She grew up in a children's home, and she – along with many others - was used by a group of powerful men who … were sexually attracted to children."

"It's no surprise to me that there are paedophiles amongst the rich and powerful. And it doesn't surprise me that they photographed their exploits, but why are you showing this to me?"

"When Melanie told me the identity of that man I immediately thought of you."

" _Me_? Why?"

"Because, Ruth, that man is your boss."

"My boss? Who? The DG of MI5?"

"Closer to home, Ruth. The man in that image is Harry Pearce."


	2. Chapter 2

Ruth quickly sat back as though she'd been slapped. She cupped one hand over her mouth, chiefly to stop herself from crying out, but also just in case she vomited. _Harry_? _Harry likes little girls?_ _That's impossible._ After a minute, during which she wasn't sure whether she should shout at Jerry or burst into tears, Ruth stood up and excused herself. She headed straight for the bathroom, where she closed the door behind her and leaned against it. Why did she answer the phone when Jerry had rung? She could have allowed it to go to voice mail and then deleted the call when she heard his message. But she wouldn't have. She'd have been intrigued by what was important enough for Jerry to seek her out. Jeremy Nevill, knight in paper armour. Back then, when they were young they'd discussed at length their plans for their lives. Jeremy had wanted to right wrongs by writing about them, while Ruth had wanted to write – in the stolen moments between reading every book ever written. Their dreams had been just that, and yet here was Jerry doing exactly as he'd planned.

After a few minutes, during which Ruth had calmed a little, she stepped to the hand basin and ran the cold tap, patting her face with water until her skin temperature dropped. It was while she was drying her face that something wormed its way into her conscious mind.

The man in the photograph couldn't possibly be Harry, and suddenly Ruth knew why:

The naked man appeared older than Harry would have been at the time – approaching his fortieth birthday. The man in the photo had the scrotum of an old man, or at the very least a middle aged man. Ruth didn't know how she knew that, but she knew that to be so. Older men's genitals looked different. Older men had older-looking genitals.

The man in the photo had hairy arms, and Ruth had at least seen Harry's forearms, and she'd noticed how little hair there had been on his arms.

But the main reason it could not be Harry was that Harry was a good man, a decent man, and he loved her and wanted her to love him. Such a man would not abuse a child. Ruth was certain about that.

With that sense of surety Ruth opened the bathroom door and ventured back into the living area where she found that Jerry had taken the initiative to make them each a fresh cup of coffee. He had also found some biscuits and arranged them on a plate. "Make yourself at home," Ruth said.

"I thought I would," Jerry replied. "Sorry to have shocked you with that," he added once Ruth had sat down. "I hadn't known you and he were … that close."

"We're not … _that_ close. I've not seen … _that_ ," Ruth stumbled along, pointing in the vague direction of the tablet, which Jerry again held loosely between his fingers, propped upright to give him a better view. Ruth briefly wondered how long it had taken for Jerry to have become almost immune to images as shocking as the one he'd shown her.

"So … you can't truly say whether it's him … or not."

"I'm almost certain it's not. The man in that image is … older …"

"I agree."

"Have you shown this young woman a photo of Harry?"

"Yes. She identified him from that photo. She said she was as certain as she could be, given the passage of time."

"When was the photo taken?"

"Maybe four or five years ago."

"Four or five? Can't you see? Harry looked completely different eighteen years ago. We all did. You had hair back then, and so did Harry."

Jerry suddenly appeared less confident, less cocky. It was clear to Ruth that he hadn't considered the possibility that in 1993 Harry would have appeared so much different. "But … surely he looks basically the same … doesn't he?"

"Jerry, I can't believe you'd not have thought of this. I've seen Harry's photograph from when he joined MI5 – just prior to the time this picture was taken – and, well, he looks like a different man altogether."

"Shit. Shit, shit, shit. The girl – Melanie – was so convincing."

"Given she was only eight at the time the abuse occurred, her memory of the man may not be … complete .. or terribly accurate. Young children tend to have powerful memories of details like smells, and eyes, and the set of someone's mouth, what their voice sounded like .. and the words they used. They don't always remember what the whole person looked like. I've read that in some cases the child is so traumatised that all they remember is the person's genitals, or the shape of their fingernails, what odours they detected on their breath."

"I do know something about this, you know."

"Sorry. I'm just feeling a bit … defensive."

Jerry breathed out heavily, gently placing the tablet on the table in front of him. "For someone who isn't in a relationship with this guy," he said quietly, "you're very protective of him."

"There are times when Harry .. needs protecting."

"Right." Jerry appeared unconvinced. He was sure there was more to Ruth's relationship with her boss than she was telling him.

"Have you shared this information with anyone else, Jerry? Have you been to the police? Have you spoken to the press?"

"Neither. The only person outside the victims who knows this is the perpetrators and Toby, my cameraman."

"You don't take your own pictures?"

"Not if I can help it. Besides, Toby is a whizz. I need him to check the authenticity of all these images."

"How did you come across them?"

"Melanie contacted me by email. She'd had them for a few months. They'd been sent to her anonymously. It had taken her a while to figure out what to do with them. Her first instinct was to burn the disk they came on."

Ruth looked down at her coffee. She couldn't imagine the horrors this young woman had lived through. She felt a brief stab of guilt for having lived a relatively stress free life. "I need to phone Harry," she said. "He needs to know what is being said about him. I'd like you to stay and speak to him, Jerry. You need to let him know how all this is about to proceed. I suspect he'll request an injunction on this young woman's story ….. at least until further investigation is made. Can you cry off your date?"

Jerry suddenly appeared sheepish. "It wasn't actually a date. Amanda is Amanda Rocca. She's my agent, and she wanted to see the images."

"Can you keep her away for a few days? If these make it to a newspaper or magazine before they're properly authenticated, then the fallout could …"

"Blow back in my face."

"Exactly, and it won't do your career any good, either."

* * *

Harry arrived twenty minutes after Ruth had rung him.

"Tell me it's not Gary Hicks, Ruth. I don't think I could bear another encounter with him."

"No it's not, and neither could I. I knew Jeremy at university. He works as a self employed investigative reporter. His usual fare is the news behind the news. Of late he has been working more and more in the field of corporate corruption -"

"No shortage of material then."

"No. He was … approached by a young woman who wishes him to tell her story. He's currently working on authenticating the story she tells. He has … images of … abuse … sexual abuse. I'd like you to look at this."

"Isn't that a bit beyond MI5's remit, Ruth?"

"Not when you are one of the men accused of the abuse."

Ruth listened to the silence as Harry took in what she'd told him. "I'll be there as soon as I can," he said.

Once Harry was sitting at her dining table with a fresh cup of coffee in front of him, Ruth made a move to leave the room.

"No, Ruth, I need you here," Harry said, looking up at her with pleading eyes. "I need you to witness this … conversation."

"Do you need me to take notes?"

Harry smiled then, and all Ruth could think about was what was it he had to smile about. "Of course not," he said, "but I'd quite like your support."

Support. Of course. She was good at that. She could support Harry from here to the Moon and back, but if someone wanted him out of the way – permanently – what better way than to implicate him in a sex scandal … an abuse scandal involving young children? If Harry was unable to clear his name, he'd be out of a job, and his name would be forever tainted with the smear of the very worst of misconduct. She could never allow that to happen. She would throw herself at the feet of anyone wanting to harm either Harry or his reputation. She would plead and cajole, and if that didn't work, she'd shout and scream and hit, not that that would do her any good. Perhaps she and Harry had a lot more in common than she had realised. Harry had sacrificed himself to save her life, and here she was contemplating doing the very same thing for him. Would she die for him? She already had, and she wouldn't hesitate were she to have to do it again.

"Of course," Ruth replied. "Whatever you need." Ruth again took her seat at the table, across from Jeremy and close to Harry. Were he to need to touch her he could. She didn't expect him to touch her. She and Harry didn't do touching. At that very moment in time Ruth regretted that. She wanted very much to touch Harry – just her hand resting on his arm, letting him know she was on his side.

"I guess I should throw you in at the deep end, Harry," Jeremy said, pushing the tablet across the table until it rested in front of Harry. "That chap with his tackle out -"

"Jesus Christ!" Harry said, his expression one of shock. "You could have warned me." Harry quickly turned to Ruth, his hands covering the tablet to prevent her seeing the image. "Tell me you haven't seen this," he said.

"I had to show it to Ruth," Jerry cut in, "just in case it was you."

"Just in case it was _me_? How the hell was she supposed to know that, and what gives you the right to show her this … this image?"

"Harry …" Ruth's voice was calm, her attempt to bring him back on an even keel. "Jerry thought I'd be able to identify you … were it you."

"How? _How_ , for Christ's sake?" Harry's voice was low and threatening. Ruth knew what that voice meant. Harry reserved it for people he was about to trap … set up, or eliminate.

"Harry," Jeremy said, maintaining his composure, "I had heard about your being … suspended, and the reason for the suspension. When I heard that Ruth was the woman concerned, I thought … incorrectly, it seems … that you two were … an item."

 _Chance would be a fine thing_ , thought Harry. Were Ruth to have seen … what Jerry Nevill had surmised she'd seen, then chances were that at that moment they'd have been tucked up in bed together rather than listening to this blockhead jumping to conclusions and leaping the chasm of probability in one single bound. Harry risked a quick glance at Ruth, to see her watching him carefully, her face full of concern … apparently for him.

Jeremy Nevill silently observed the exchange between them. Harry looked at Ruth, while Ruth gazed back at Harry. _Not involved, my arse,_ he thought. If those two were not in a relationship, then they were about to be … and soon. "I think it's about time I left," he said quietly. "I've shown you what I came here to show you."

"Yes, thanks for that," Harry said, his eyes still holding Ruth's. "Ruth and I always require a bit of old man porn before we climb the stairs to bed."

"Harry," Ruth said gently, "I think Jerry came here to warn me – us – just in case the man in the photograph was you. I believe his motivation was … honourable."

Harry took a deep breath as he tore his eyes from Ruth and turned towards Jerry. "Yes. Thank you for your … concern," he said. "I don't know if you need proof that that set of genitals is not mine. I can drop my trousers for you, but given we're in Ruth's home I think that would be somewhat inappropriate. My suggestion is that you discover the identity of the man in that image."

Noting the heavy use of sarcasm used by Harry, Ruth jumped in. "If you can spare me for half a day, Harry, I can find out who he is. I already have a few ideas."

Harry turned to Ruth and nodded. "Anything to bring down the curtain on this … performance."

Jerry had already packed his brief case, and within minutes Ruth was accompanying him to her front door. "Just don't show this to anyone," she said quietly, opening the door for Jerry.

"You're not … protecting him, are you?" Jerry said quietly, turning to gaze down at her.

"Of course I'm protecting him," she said, "but not for the reasons you think. He's been through enough this past month or more. To accuse him of something for which he is not guilty would not only be sloppy and careless, but cruel and unnecessary."

"Mmm, you certainly have a point."

When Ruth re-entered her dining room Harry had made them a pot of tea, but he was nowhere to be seen. Looking around, she noticed Harry's jacket draped over the back of the chair in which he'd sat. Perhaps he'd gone to the bathroom. She poured them each a cup of tea and then waited. She waited almost ten minutes before standing and quietly heading past the kitchen and into the passageway which led to the bathroom and two bedrooms. She found Harry leaning against the wall just outside the bathroom. His head was back and his eyes were closed, his hands stuffed into the pockets of his trousers. Had it not been for the puckering of a frown on his forehead he could have been enjoying a peaceful moment of solitude.

"Harry?" she said, quietly moving close to him.

Harry opened his eyes and turned his head to look at her. The only illumination in the passageway came from the light in the living area. "I just needed to …" he began, and then his voice faded.

Suddenly feeling braver than usual, Ruth took another step closer to him and gently grasped his upper arm with her fingers. Through the fabric of his shirt she felt his muscles contract slightly. He stood up and away from the wall, and turned to face her. The movement brought him very close to her … the closest they had been since they'd kissed goodbye when she'd left to go into exile. Looking into his eyes she felt less brave. "You needed some time to yourself," she said quietly.

Harry gave the slightest of nods. "I needed to get my head straight. I can't let this … tip me off my axis."

His words brought a smile to Ruth's mouth and she squeezed his arm. With his free arm Harry reached out and rested his fingers on her waist. They stood that way for what felt like a very long time. For those moments it was as though they were the only two people in the world. Suddenly Harry leaned forward and placed a soft kiss on her forehead.

"What was that for?" she asked.

"For being here. For believing me."

"I have no reason to not believe you," she said, stepping a little away from him so that physical contact between them was broken. "To my mind you'd be incapable of such a thing."

Harry nodded and then indicated they should head back to the dining room. The moment was over, the magic had lifted, but as he saw it, progress had been made. When they reached the dining room they took their seats across the table from one another.

"I stayed because I wanted to speak to you without your friend present." He pronounced the words, `your friend', with unnecessary emphasis.

"He's no longer a friend, Harry. I knew him at university. He was …"

"Your boyfriend?"

"For a very brief eye blink in time. Mostly he was a friend, but over time we … grew away from one another."

Harry held her eyes for a moment longer than necessary, and then looked down, his attention on his own cup of tea. "I'm sorry if I've been … boorish, Ruth …"

"You haven't been boorish, Harry. You've been … you."

On the word, `you', Harry looked up, a slight twist to his mouth. "That's very diplomatic of you. Do you find me that difficult?"

"Not all the time."

They sat in silence over their tea, each lost in their own thoughts. After a while Ruth decided it was her job to lift Harry from his melancholy state. "I meant what I said about discovering the identity of … no-pants-man. All I have to do is find someone – someone in a position of power and prominence - who in 1993 was in their mid to late fifties, and was called Harry."

Harry nodded. "What if there's no-one who fits that description? What if the girl heard his name incorrectly? What if Harry was a nickname, or a legend?"

"Then I'll keep looking. After all you've been through I won't let this … happen."

Again Harry nodded. He was beginning to feel strange. He was normally able to keep his emotions well hidden, but at that moment he could feel tears stinging the back of his eyes. He couldn't … wouldn't cry in Ruth's presence. "I need to get back to the Grid," he said, suddenly standing, his cup of tea unfinished.

Ruth also stood, circling the table to stand closer to him. "Please don't go back to work, Harry. I'd be happier were you to go home." Were she being honest with herself, at that very moment she would have been happiest were Harry to have stayed the night, even if it meant him sleeping on her sofa.

He watched her for a long moment, his expression inscrutable. "Alright. I don't have to go back there. I just thought I should."

"Go home. Get some rest." Without thinking about it, Ruth put her hand on his arm, her touch gentle. "I'll see you to the door."

She walked him to her front door, where he turned to bid her goodnight. He hesitated, as though wondering what best to do, briefly touched her upper arm with his fingers, and then turned to leave. As Ruth closed the door behind him, she couldn't help feeling that she'd let pass by a chance to move closer to this very private man.


	3. Chapter 3

_**A/N : Thank you for the interest so far, and especially to those who have left reviews. There will be chapters where the plot is put aside for the purpose of character introduction and/or development, or just long-winded conversations. I hope you will bear with me through this.  
**_

* * *

The next morning Erin gave Ruth the task of assessing the risks of three new groups whose activities had been reported as suspicious.

"I can give you five hours," Ruth replied, "and then I have to do something for Harry."

Ruth became swept up in her search, especially once she discovered a link between a group based in Brixton calling themselves the Armed For Peace, and a recent spate of robberies of hunting shops.

"Isn't that a little too obvious?" Erin said when Ruth showed her the report.

"I think that's the idea," Ruth replied. "Perhaps they want us to think they're small time. No-one with an ambitious agenda would bother with hunting shops. It's definitely them, or some of their members. My bet is the group's main source of parts for firearms is Russia. The Russian black market, especially in drugs, alcohol and weapons is a multi-billion dollar a year business."

"We can't stir up Russia," Erin said, standing to her full height of 5' 3".

"Sorry?"

"There's a Russian delegation in London as we speak. Britain needs this. We need to -"

"Get into bed with Russia. Yes, I've heard about that." Ruth and Harry had briefly discussed the matter as they'd travelled back to the Grid on the final day of his hearing. He wasn't interested in his section getting involved, and had asked one of the other section heads to take care of security for the meetings. Now, with the added complication of the accusations against him, he would be less likely to jump at the chance to protect the talks with Russia. Harry would be maintaining a low profile.

By the time she had created a comprehensible account of the relative threats from the three groups, it was almost six o'clock, and Ruth had not had a chance to search for likely candidates for the 1993 photograph. In her mind, clearing Harry's name was much more pressing, more immediate than a bunch of military wannabes who may or may not have conducted raids on shops selling firearms. The Grid without Harry was like a sailing boat minus its sail. She minimised the windows on her monitor, grabbed an empty folder from her desk drawer, and then headed towards Harry's office, where the blinds were closed. She gently knocked twice before sliding the door open just enough for her to see inside.

Harry glanced her way. "You need to see this," he said, turning his eyes back to the TV screen just to the right of his desk.

Ruth stepped into the office, turning to close the door behind her before she looked across towards Harry. He stood and took the chair from across his desk, placing it next to his own, indicating that she should sit in this chair. Once seated, she glanced at him, but he was again sitting in his own chair, his back half turned away from her, his eyes on the TV screen with the sound muted.

"What is it?" she asked. She was unable to determine Harry's mood, other than a certain distracted air, which was quite normal for him, Harry seemed overly focussed on the rolling television news. "Has there been a -?" she asked, but was unable to continue as he lifted a hand, forefinger pointed upwards, to silence her.

"Keep your eyes on the screen," he said quietly. "It will be coming up at any moment."

Ruth did as he asked, and sure enough, in around four minutes, she read the words on the banner which announced `Sex Scandal', and then a 5-year-old photograph of Harry, his features blurred, the words beneath the photograph describing him as a prominent member of MI5 . Then there was an image of a woman, her face in darkness. Harry hadn't been named. But it was only a matter of time. The proverbial shit had hit the fan.

Ruth stood up quickly, grasping the desk to steady herself. "My phone is on my desk," she said, unable to look at Harry. "I have to ring Jerry."

It was only then that Harry turned to look at her. That was when Ruth noticed how sad were his eyes, and how defeated was his body language. How could she be thinking about ringing Jerry? And why hadn't Jerry rung her to warn her of this … _travesty_ … this trial by media? Ruth quickly sat back down, leaning towards Harry. She reached out her hand and touched his arm. It was a gentle touch, her fingers lightly resting on the fabric of his jacket, but she could feel the tension in his body. "Harry, I'm so, so sorry," she said. "You shouldn't have to be facing this."

Suddenly Harry's desk phone rang, and Ruth again stood, preparing to leave the office while he took the call. Again Harry looked up at her, his eyes showing the hurt and need he was unable to articulate. "Please stay," he said quietly. "I need you … here … close to me," and then he picked up the phone's receiver and barked his name.

Ruth sat back down, watching Harry in conversation with the person on the other end of the phone, but not hearing the words he spoke. He needed her. He had asked her to stay. Why, when she had let him down by not getting on with her search for the fake Harry Pearce?

In less than three minutes the call was over. Once more he turned his chair so that he faced her, leaning slightly towards her. "That was the Home Secretary," he said. "Firstly he asked me was I the man who had not been named. Of course I told him the truth; what else could I do? He was … sympathetic, and it appears he doesn't believe the news report, but he has suspended me until further notice … until my name is cleared. I'm to leave the building within the hour."

"I'm coming with you," Ruth said quickly.

This time it was Harry who reached out, his fingers resting on her forearm. "No, Ruth. I don't want you to be involved in this."

"It's too late. I'm already involved."

"Ruth …" Harry, with his fingers gently grasping her forearm, leaned much closer to her so that she could clearly see the flecks of green in his eyes. Ruth looked down, breaking eye contact. "Ruth … look at me." Very slowly she raised her eyes to his. They were leaning towards one another, and were so close … so close, but this was not the time for romantic possibilities. "I need you to stay here. You are the only one who knows what has happened. I need you to tell the others. Wait until I've left and then call a meeting."

"What shall I say?"

"Tell them the truth."

"Shouldn't I speak to Erin first? Shouldn't she be taking the meeting?"

"I'm asking you to do this. I trust you with this. I haven't yet had a chance to fully assess Erin, nor she me."

It appeared that Harry suddenly noticed he was holding her arm, so he quickly dropped his hand, lifting it to touch his forehead in a self conscious gesture. Ruth could tell he was out of his depth. This was something different. This was not about giving away a genetic weapon. This was an accusation which was personal, one of the worst things of which a man could be accused, and Ruth knew that Harry would not expect her to stand by him. He was protecting her … again.

"Alright," she said, "but I'll call you when I finish for the day."

Ruth quickly left Harry's office, only once glancing back. She messaged each of the senior staff, calling a team meeting for six-thirty. All but Dimitri replied. She planned to phone Dimitri herself once the meeting was over.

* * *

By ten minutes to eight in the evening Ruth was drained and in need of sleep. Her muscles were almost unable to respond to her need for them to function for just a few hours more. Erin had suggested she take one of the pool cars home for the evening. So it was almost to her own surprise that she found herself parked in the lane behind Harry's house. She had not so much planned to be there as she'd needed to be closer to him, to ensure he was alright.

"Harry?" she said, once he'd answered her call, "I'm just checking in."

"How did it go?"

"The meeting?"

"Of course, the meeting. How were they?"

"They're all shocked and outraged, and they … send their love."

"I doubt they would have said that."

"No. They didn't say that, but … I could … detect how they were feeling. Tariq said he already misses you, and that he wanted to do something to help, so I handed him the task of finding the other Harry Pearce. He'll be quicker than me, and he has more resources at his fingertips. I suspect he'll stay at work until he finds the man who abused that girl."

"Thank you, Ruth."

"It's … Harry?"

"Yes."

"Do you mind if I come in? I'm parked in the lane behind your house."

Ruth listened while Harry thought for a moment. "Shouldn't you go home?"

"I will once I've seen you."

Harry took a moment to absorb Ruth's meaning. Perhaps she needed to tell him more about the meeting. Perhaps she felt the need to apologise to him, although he failed to see what she had to apologise about. All he knew was that he needed to see her almost as much as he needed to crawl into his bed and sleep. "I'll meet you in the lane. There's a gate in the wall of the house to the immediate south of mine. I'll be there in a minute or so." He had half expected to find journalists in front of his house when he'd arrived home, but thankfully, all had been quiet. He knew he was not high profile enough to attract the Sunday papers, and he'd not been named, so he hopefully had at least 24 hours until things escalated.

It took him under a minute to leave his house by the back door, open the adjoining gate between his garden and the garden of his neighbour, Bob, and follow the garden path through Bob's back garden to the gate in the wall, where he found Ruth waiting. She looked so small and scared and cold that he had to resist a powerful urge to hug her.

"Follow me," he said, turning back the way he'd come, and then gently closing the gate behind them. Ruth noticed that he was still wearing the clothes he'd worn to work, minus his jacket and tie, and he'd opened the top buttons of his shirt and rolled his shirt sleeves to just below his elbows. He appeared unaware of the cold as he strode through Bob's garden, through the gate between their respective gardens, and then into his house. Only then did he look closely at Ruth. "You look ragged," he said, immediately regretting his choice of words.

"Thank you for that," she replied, but he was sure he could detect the beginnings of a smile around her mouth.

"Tea?" he asked, already turning to fill the kettle and then take two mugs from the overhead cupboard.

Nothing more was said until they were sitting across from one another at his kitchen table.

"This is the first time I've been inside your house," Ruth mused. "Don't you think that rather strange?"

Harry wasn't sure how to reply to that, or even what was meant by the comment. Should he have invited her here some time ago as an intention of … what? He'd never thought of his house as an appropriate meeting place for them. It wasn't terribly lived in, nor was it especially welcoming. It was functional. It was a place where he stored his personal possessions, a place where he occasionally ate, and where each night he snatched a few precious hours of sleep. It wasn't somewhere he'd bring a woman he cared about with the intention of revealing to her his inner sanctum. As Harry saw it, his office on the Grid was more personal than was his home, and yet his office was also stark and functional.

"It's just that …" Ruth continued, aware that Harry had been wrong-footed by her turning up at his back fence. "I wanted to see you, and you're stuck here on your own, not able to see anyone."

"I'm glad you're here, Ruth," he said at last. He coughed to clear his throat. It felt like a very long time since they'd spoken, and yet it had only been hours. "I don't usually … entertain at home. It's just …" He looked around the room as if seeing it for the first time. "It's purely functional."

"It's more than functional, Harry. It just needs a few more … personal touches."

"I'm not terribly skilled with personal touches." Ruth nodded her agreement. What Harry needed was a woman in his life. "I … I think women are better at that sort of thing. I noticed that your flat looked …"

"A bit of a mess."

"No. You see, I thought it looked lived in. It was clear that you lived there. Your … things were everywhere."

"As I said, it was a bit of a mess."

They fell into a comfortable silence. Their conversation had not flowed easily. They were sitting together in Harry's kitchen drinking tea, their past hovering over them like a dark cloud, while their possible future struggled to break through the cloud cover. Would it always be like this? Ruth could feel Harry's eyes on her. There had been a time when his scrutiny would have sent her running to put as much distance between them as possible. Now … now she was almost prepared to meet him half way.

The silence was suddenly broken by the ringing of Ruth's mobile phone. She grabbed it from her pocket and seeing Tariq's name on the display, she answered quickly. Tariq wasn't one for calling for no reason. "Tariq?" she answered.

"Ruth, I think I have the identity of our man. Is Harry there?"

"Er … yes, but how did you know I'd be with Harry?"

"I know he and you are friends, so where else would you be? Look, I've identified someone who fits the description the woman gave .. the one who named Harry as her abuser. Can I send my findings through to your phone?"

"Yes, and perhaps you could send them to Harry's home email address as well."

They quickly ended the call, and placing her phone on the table beside her, Ruth looked up at Harry. "Did you hear that?" she asked.

"I'm hoping Tariq's found our man."

Just as Ruth nodded, the email prompt sounded on her phone.


	4. Chapter 4

"How is it possible for someone to so resemble me, and yet be no relation at all?"

Fifteen minutes later Harry and Ruth had climbed the stairs to his office, and she had checked her email account on her phone while Harry was firing up his laptop to check his own email. Eventually he slid his chair over, making room for Ruth to draw up another chair beside his own. Shoulder to shoulder they gazed at the images Tariq had sent of Melanie's probable abuser, a man named Sir Hector Percival, Secretary of State for the Home Office in Mrs Thatcher's government in 1988 and 1989.

"Are you sure your mother didn't have an indiscretion, Harry?" Ruth quipped, hoping Harry could detect her lightness of tone. She had no wish for him to think she was passing judgement on his mother's morals.

"Had Percival fathered me, Ruth, at the time of my conception he would have been an especially precocious fourteen-year-old. I doubt my mother would have been interested, but the likeness is uncanny, all the same."

"And Tariq explained in the email that Sir Hector hated his name, and from the time he left university he was known to friends and family as Harry - Harry Percival – although in his official capacity he went by his proper name. I can see how the mistake occurred. And then there's his resemblance to you. Apart from his blue eyes you could be brothers."

"This image still has to be shown to the girl," Harry pondered, "and she might not wish to change her mind. After all this time she probably believes her own story."

Ruth knew he was right, and this worried her. She had yet to contact Jerry Nevill. The most sensible next step would be to forward Tariq's email to Jerry. What if the story made the next day's papers? Having Harry's image, even one which was mostly hidden, pop up on the nightly news was bad enough, but for the story to be picked up by the press … well, it didn't bear thinking about. She had to act … immediately. She stood quickly, pushing her chair back. Harry looked up at her, his look one of surprise.

"I need to ring Jerry … now … and he has to stop this going any further."

Ruth grabbed her phone and left the room. She had little idea why it was she felt the need to make the call away from Harry's hearing. Perhaps she was still trying to protect him. She quickly dialed Jerry's number.

* * *

Harry remained seated at his desk while Ruth made her call to Jerry Nevill. He felt a small stab of jealousy as he listened to her voice, light-hearted and chatty, which was something he rarely heard when she was speaking to him. Was he that much of a burden to her? Were he being selfless he'd send her home, instructing her to leave him to sort this out alone. But he didn't want that. He liked having her in his house. He liked the way they were beginning to fit together, like they belonged together .. here, in his house.

It wasn't long before Ruth was back in the room. "He couldn't talk for long. He was in the middle of interviewing someone."

"He'll do it?"

"What? Oh, yes. He told me he'd already contacted all the Sunday papers, promising them the full story once he had all the facts, but he also said that there's no guarantee they'll respect the truth. He suspects the leak which led to tonight's TV news report probably came from someone he knows who works for one of the networks, and who has in the past hacked his laptop, and will possibly sell on some of the information he stole. When he gets home a little later he'll need to set up a new firewall, and then change all his passwords." Harry's eyebrows lifted at that news. "That's about it, really. All we can do is sit tight. He gave me his newest email address, so I'll forward Tariq's email to him."

Harry nodded, and then keyed in the address Ruth dictated to him. He pressed `send' and then sat back, letting out a sigh. "I think it might be time for a drink," he said.

* * *

Jerry Nevill stared across at the man sitting opposite him. He couldn't believe what he was hearing. He knew he didn't have to like his sources, but this guy was lower than a snake's belly.

"You're judging me," Clive Keeling said, tipping back his head to look down his nose at the younger man. Jerry had already noted the man's public school accent, his silk tie and striped shirt, and the expensive hand-made brogues on his feet. Between gaol sentences Clive Keeling worked in the city. He was currently living off his capital, and with the upkeep on his three-storey Victorian residence in Bayswater, that represented a very tidy amount of capital. "Any journalist of repute does not judge his sources. Surely you know that."

"Have you considered the possibility that I might envy you?" Jerry said, trying a different approach. Keeling was sensitive about his illicit activities, and since he was prepared to talk, Jerry had best listen. "I'm curious about how you manage to stay on the right side of the law."

Clive Keeling smiled. "Most men – if they're being honest – envy me. I was gaoled because the judges envied me … and feared me also. I stay on the right side of the law because a former deputy commissioner of police was a regular at my … little gatherings. His preference was for boys between the ages of eight and eleven. He is also married with three children and several grandchildren. His secret life was important to him, and he paid well to protect it."

"He no longer … attends?"

"Sadly he became ill, and so had to curtail his activities. He's not been active for over ten years."

"Your clients are all powerful men."

"Of course," Clive Keeling answered with barely disguised contempt. "Only the powerful would dare take such risks." He shifted slightly in his chair, looking towards the doorway, as if expecting the law to burst in at any moment. "I am currently protected by what I know. Were I to be arrested again what I know could bring down this government."

"This current government?"

"That's what I said. _This_ government."

"Tell me," Jerry mused, as if he'd suddenly thought of it, "are any members of the security services among your clients?"

"A couple. Only men at the very top of the service. The run-of-the-mill agents tend to frequent brothels, or they procure rent boys. What I provide is a specialist service, and it's expensive. The average spy could never afford it."

Jerry had been interviewing Clive Keeling for almost ninety minutes, and he had ample information for any article he may want to write and sell, but there was still something which ate away at him, something he needed to know. If he upset this piece of slime then so be it. He already had what he came for. "There is something I still fail to understand, and perhaps it is a shortcoming on my part. Perhaps I have led a sheltered life -"

Keeling's laugh stopped him mid sentence. "Come _on,_ Mr Nevill, yours could hardly be called a sheltered existence. You are an investigative reporter. Your stock in trade is people like me. What is there about what I've told you that you don't understand?"

"The children you procured for your clients … from the children's homes."

"Yes? What about them?" Keeling's words were delivered in an irritable staccato.

"Were they … _willing_ participants? It's just that I have nieces and nephews of the age of the children you … provided for your clients, and they would not be willing to allow some man, no matter how powerful, to do … what your clients do. Surely these children are traumatised by what is done to them -"

" _Done_ to them? Mr Nevill, the children were happy to oblige. Most of them formed … loving relationships with the men. They were fond of the men, as the men were fond of them. They … looked forward to their sessions with my clients, and they were well recompensed."

"How?"

"They were fed well. Keep in mind that these children had no parents and were living in children's homes. They were fed and clothed, and toys and books were bought for them. I'd go as far to say that they were pampered."

"And none complained … or tried to run away?"

"Why would they? They were given love and attention -"

" _Love._ You mean they were forced into acts of sex with old men."

"I've already told you there was no penetrative sex acts performed on the children."

"And what if I told you that there were?"

"You were not there, sir. My clients assured me they were respectful towards the children. The children enjoyed the activities."

Of course, Jerry had heard the same tune sung by other paedophiles. _The children were willing. Were they not willing they would have run away. Crying? No, they didn't cry. They loved their older partners, and looked forward to spending time with them. They loved the men with whom they spent time, and the men loved them._ All lies. All part of the paedophiles' justification for their behaviour. They all sang from the same song book.

"Thank you, Mr Keeling," he said, turning off the audio recorder on his phone. "You've been very helpful. If I need to know more, I'll contact you again." As he packed his things into his leather brief case he was already thinking about where would be a safe place to hide Melanie. Having talked to this creep, his own flat would no longer be a safe haven.

* * *

Ruth and Harry had drunk the best part of a bottle of white wine between them when Ruth's mobile phone rang. She looked up at Harry before answering her phone. He emptied his glass before carefully placing it back on the table. He lifted his eyebrows to Ruth, an unspoken question about refilling her glass. Her reply was to shake her head, so he poured the remaining wine from the bottle into his own glass.

"Dimitri?" Ruth said, surprised. She had not set eyes on the field agent since the morning previously, and then it had only been to see him disappear through the doors and off the Grid. "Are you alright?"

"Never better. I've been speaking with Tariq. We're both still at work. I need your permission to go after this low life."

"And which particular low life would that be? Last time I looked there were a number of them."

"This guy pretending to be Harry. I think I know where he lives."

"Dimitri …."

"Yes?"

"Can you perhaps hold off hurting the man until we know more? I'd like to give him the chance to confess. If he denies knowing Melanie, then … perhaps you can … I don't know. Do you want me to ask Harry?"

"Of course not. He's no fun at all. He'll just tell me to allow this to be dealt with through the proper channels."

"Just wait, and if he denies all knowledge of being the person Melanie has named then …"

"I should break his legs, yeah?"

"Maybe one leg."

They shared farewell greetings and finished the call. Ruth carefully placed her phone on the table beside her and then looked across to where Harry had been listening to her side of the conversation.

"I know you, Ruth," he said. "You really want to share with me your conversation with Dimitri, but there is some reason you're looking at me like that."

Ruth lifted her eyebrows. "Like what?"

"Like you're expecting me to shout."

"Were you to shout at me, Harry, I'd leave immediately."

"I know. I … think I know what Dimitri wanted, and I believe I know which person it is he wants to hurt."

"I thought it best you don't know. You can't be responsible for something about which you haven't prior knowledge."

Harry twisted his lips in an expression of annoyance. She had a point. He sighed heavily. "If – and I say if – Dimitri does some damage to this Percival character, then I'd rather not know about it."

"Alright. Do you trust me to make the right decision?"

"I have to, don't I?" Harry knocked back the last of the wine.

Ruth squirmed in her seat. It was time she went home, but she was enjoying herself – just her and Harry, more comfortable with one another than they'd ever been. "I really should go," she said quietly.

"It's not even ten o'clock, and tomorrow's Sunday. I could open another bottle of wine."

Ruth smiled across the table at him. "We're short staffed, so I'm needed at work tomorrow."

There was a short silence during which they each watched the other. "You could always stay here, and go to work from here in the morning," he said, very quietly.

Ruth had no idea how best to answer that, so she quickly stood, almost knocking over her chair.

"I meant you could sleep in the spare room, Ruth. I wasn't suggesting anything … inappropriate."

"Why would it be inappropriate were we to …?"

"It wouldn't. I thought that you might think it was."

By this time they were both standing, neither making any real moves to end the evening. They watched one another across the space between them. "I wouldn't," Ruth said at last, "think it inappropriate, that is."

"Good." Harry watched her for a moment more, and then led her to the back door, accompanying her through the two gates and then to the lane where she'd parked the pool car. Harry stayed next to the gate while Ruth crossed the lane to reach the car. Her last glimpse of him as she drove away was of him standing by the gate in his shirt sleeves, his hand raised. As Ruth entered the street from the lane she wondered why she hadn't taken him up on his offer of a bed for the night. All she had waiting for her at home was a dark flat and a cold bed. For the second night in a row Ruth had let an opportunity slip through her fingers. It was then she decided that were Harry to make another move towards her, however slight, she would not hesitate to return the gesture.


	5. Chapter 5

_**A/N : Thank you to readers, followers, and especially to those kind folk who have left reviews.**_

 _ **A couple of reviewers mentioned the repulsive Clive Keeling. In the "60 Minutes" episode which prompted this fic, the reporter interviewed a man who was responsible for getting the children and the men together, and he was a slime. I cannot remember his name, but the interview in which Jerry Nevill spoke with Clive Keeling was based quite closely on the interview from the "60 Minutes" episode. I kept wondering why that man would want to be interviewed so publicly, but he seemed to see it as an opportunity for presenting his own particular point of view, and then justifying/normalising his behaviour. Whilst Keeling is not necessary to the plot of this fic, I believe his POV regarding his clandestine activities provides a much needed perspective, since we will not be meeting the other paedophiles, or not in any significant way.  
**_

* * *

When Ruth arrived at work next morning she found the Grid to be almost deserted. Apart from Erin and Tariq none of the regular staff had arrived. Erin approached Ruth's desk and drew up a chair.

"Have you seen this morning's papers?" she asked, once she'd sat herself in the chair, crossing her legs with an elegance Ruth could only dream of having.

Ruth hesitated, wondering whether she should have made a point of stopping off to buy papers on her way to work. The truth was she'd not wanted to, for fear she'd be sucked into the vortex of reality where Harry had been named as an abuser of children, an evil predator. Ruth knew for a fact that Harry was no such thing, and that the accusation by the young woman, Melanie, could not be true, so why read the lies which the Sunday papers were prone to printing? She shook her head, not trusting herself to speak.

"All today's news publications, including the online sites, have withdrawn the story ….. except for one."

"Oh, let me guess. That would be The Daily Mirror?"

Erin smiled and nodded. "However," she continued, "they have covered the gist of the story, while not naming names. All they say is that the perpetrator is a public servant in a position of power and responsibility."

"Someone has made threats."

Again Erin nodded. "Last night, just as I was about to head to bed, I had a phone call from William Towers. He didn't say as much, but I believe he spent most of yesterday afternoon on the phone to the respective editors. What this means is that we have time to … work on this."

"Isn't it just a matter of getting a confession from the real perpetrator? And surely the girl can identify him, especially if he confesses." Ruth wasn't sure she believed a word of what she'd just said. It sounded so simple, but if the girl had identified a recent photograph of Harry as her 1993 abuser, then how likely was it she'd be able to identify Harry Percival? And would Harry Percival own up? Somehow Ruth thought no on both counts. "And shouldn't the police be dealing with this?"

Erin moved in her seat, uncrossing her legs. "The police are somewhat hamstrung on this issue. Another young person – a man this time – has spoken to your journalist friend, and he is naming a former Deputy Commissioner. It's become a sensitive issue for the police, and as a result the Met are moving rather slowly."

Ruth let out her breath and leaned back in her chair. Suddenly she felt very afraid for Harry. She had to do something and soon. "I'd like to check how .. my journalist contact's investigation is progressing," she began, hoping Erin would give her the freedom to do as she saw fit, especially since she normally had Sundays free.

"Take all the time you need, Ruth. The sooner Harry is back at work, the better it will look for MI5. The service can't sustain this kind of bad press over too long a period."

 _Of course. It's all about how things look for the service. We can't have the service being besmirched by one of its own, can we?_ "I'll see if Jeremy is free for a late lunch," she said, keeping her thoughts to herself. After all, she hardly knew Erin. For all Ruth knew she could be a mole from God-knows-where.

* * *

Harry had already done a search of all the online Sunday papers and his name had not come up in any of them. So far so good. The worst thing about being suspended was the long hours of daylight, and the inevitable boredom. Perhaps he needed to get another dog. Taking the dog for a walk had always provided him with a good excuse for getting out of the house. He checked the contents of the fridge and the pantry cupboards, and decided he needed to do a grocery shop. He gazed through the living room window, but could see no unusual activity out there. The cars parked on the street were meant to be there, and other than his neighbour from across the road pruning his rose bushes there were no people about. It was just another normal Sunday morning.

Then he had an idea, a very, very good idea, so he hunted around for his phone, and found it on his bedside table. He called the number, and she answered after the second ring.

"Not too early for you, then," he said, more a statement than a question.

"I'm at work," she replied, her voice hushed.

"Then I won't keep you. Would you like to have dinner with me tonight?" The silence with which his question was met was not encouraging. Perhaps she was involved with that dodgy journalist after all.

"You've taken me by surprise," she said, after around ten seconds of silence. "We don't normally do … dinner."

"I thought it's about time we changed that. I'm cooking dinner tonight, and I'm asking you to join me. It won't be anything too elaborate, Ruth … just something with chicken."

Ruth smiled to herself. She'd like that. The only problem she saw was the nature of the dinner. Was it a date-dinner, or simply a dinner between friends? She could never ask Harry that question. "Do I need to dress up?" she asked, still smiling.

"Only if you want to, Ruth. My tux has been at the dry cleaners since last September, so I'll be dressing casually. How does 7 sound?"

"As a number, or a time for me to arrive?"

Harry chuckled to himself. He loved this Ruth – the playful Ruth who enjoyed sending him up. Of late the sad and angry Ruth had been gradually fading, along with the unpleasant memories of her return to London. "As a time for you to arrive, of course."

"7.30 might be better, Harry. I'm meeting Jeremy Nevill at 5. I'll be hoping he'll allow me to speak with Melanie."

"Are you sure that's a good idea?"

"No, I'm not, but I feel I need to speak to her woman to woman. For too long she's had to contend with men determining the direction of her life."

"Maybe your attention needs to be on this Percival fellow."

"I've decided to give Dimitri … the go-ahead if … by this time tomorrow nothing has changed."

Harry thought about what Ruth had just told him. "Perhaps that's best, Ruth. Dimitri is quite skilled at intimidation, and I believe he'd like the Grid to be like it was before I was suspended after I gave away Albany. He'll just give the man a little … nudge. What can be the harm?"

* * *

At the same time Harry was preparing the ingredients for making chicken and garlic with rice and vegetables, Ruth was still waiting for Jerry to arrive at the pub where they'd agreed to meet, and she was becoming anxious. She needed to speak to him and to express her concerns about Melanie's well-being, but even more than that, she needed to spend the evening with Harry. They had so little time together, so little time for each other. This … almost-relationship which they were in required nurturing, and the best way to do that was to make time for each other.

* * *

Harry had everything ready to go. He estimated the preparation time to be no more than half an hour, while the cooking time would be a little over an hour. Were Ruth to arrive on time they'd have a few drinks until the meal was ready. He was more nervous than he was happy. The evening was important, and it was imperative – perhaps for both of them – that it went well. He'd been shocked when she'd agreed to join him for dinner. He'd expected her usual ducking and weaving. Were she to have found an excuse to not come he'd have considered that the end of the road for them, and he would have had to give up on her. He couldn't keep chasing after her forever. His heart couldn't take it. It's just that he didn't know what else to do. What else could he do? Despite her faults and his faults, and all the reasons why _they_ were a really bad idea, he loved her so profoundly that to not at least _try_ was unthinkable. He couldn't help it. She was under his skin and would likely remain there until the day he died. He'd decided to give `them' one more chance, and he really hoped that the risk would pay off for them both.

As he was fussing about whether he'd added everything which the online recipe had said he should add to this `easy' chicken recipe, Harry thought of the man he'd been twenty years earlier. Back then he'd never have cooked a meal for a woman. He'd have taken her to a nice restaurant some distance from both their homes, plied her with alcohol, and then suggested they book into a hotel room for the night. If the woman rejected the idea he never bothered with her again. Of course, back then he'd only ever been after sex. He hadn't especially liked many of the women he'd chased and bedded, often easily. Such women had fulfilled a temporary need. Had his thirty-seven year old self known that his fifty-seven year old self would have chased after the same woman for seven years without having managed to get her into bed, he'd not have believed it possible. Even now, Harry wondered at the wisdom of his decision to ignore all the many other single women there were in the world in favour of Ruth.

* * *

Just as Harry put the chicken and its sauces in the oven, turning the heat to medium-low, Jerry Nevill turned up at the pub.

"You've made it just in time," Ruth said. "I have a date tonight - at least, I think it's a date - and I need to shower and change and make myself presentable."

"So Harry's made a move at last," Jerry said, not looking at Ruth.

"Who said anything about Harry?"

"You said it without saying it, Ruth. I know you. You and he are head over heels with each other." Ruth was so startled by his keen – and accurate – observation that she was completely without words. "It's alright, Ruth. I'll not tell anyone. It might surprise you to know that I think the two of you are rather well suited. For what it's worth, you have my blessing."

This time he had gone too far. Blessing indeed! Who did Jerry think he was? "You have news for me," Ruth said, bypassing the subject of her and Harry.

"I'm sorry to say that my news is not good." Jerry sat back in the booth and placed his leather brief case on the seat beside him with a reverence that belied the battered state of the object. "Melanie has skipped."

"What do you mean?"

"It's a very long story, Ruth, but when I arrived home to my flat this morning … she'd gone, and my neighbours on both sides saw and heard nothing."

"Any signs of a struggle?"

"None. I didn't even check her room until midday, and her bed had not been slept in, and her possessions had gone."

Ruth was silent for a while as she thought about her options. She wanted to be at Harry's by 7.30, she _needed_ to be there, but it was already almost 6, and she'd not be free to enjoy her dinner with Harry were she to not offer Jeremy some help in finding Melanie. "I'll go back to the Grid for a while," she said. "I think our technical expert has a family celebration tonight, so …"

"Thank you, Ruth. I owe you one."

 _You certainly do_ , Ruth thought as she gathered her things. "I'll call you when I find something … or even if I don't find something."

"What will you do about Harry?"

Ruth suddenly stopped, all the energy draining from her as she sighed heavily. "I'll give him a call. He'll understand."

Over the following two and a half hours Ruth tried to ring Harry around seven times, but her calls went straight to voice mail. Either Harry had turned off his phone – which was unlikely – or he was too angry to answer. She just hoped he understood that she was putting his reputation and his future with the security services ahead of `them'. She also hoped that she was making the right decision.

* * *

Harry couldn't remember the last time he'd been so unhappy. Perhaps not since the terrible day almost five years earlier when Ruth had left London to go into exile had he felt quite this defeated and down. It had just gone 10 o'clock and Ruth had not turned up, and neither had she called. His phone sat on the coffee table in the living room, and he'd heard no sound from it – no text messages and no calls. He'd decided to not try to call her, believing that if she had chosen to spend her evening with Jerry Nevill then who was he to argue with that? Harry just hoped Nevill could make her happy, something he himself was clearly unable to do.

At 5 minutes after 10 he decided to prepare for bed. There was no chance she'd turn up at that hour. By 10.21 he'd tidied the kitchen, covering his and Ruth's meals with plastic wrap, and placing them on a shelf in the fridge. Perhaps he'd eat them over the next day or two, or maybe he'd throw them in the bin, a suitable symbolic gesture to reflect his and Ruth's aborted relationship.

He was standing in his bedroom, dressed in grey track bottoms and a bottle green t-shirt – his sleep wear – when he he heard a noise from downstairs. He hurried down the stairs bare foot and entered the darkened kitchen. Across the room he saw that the door to the garden was ajar. He went to grab a chair to use as a weapon when he heard her voice.

"Harry, it's me." Harry reached across and turned on the light. There, framed by the doorway, Ruth stood, her face a study of fear and embarrassment. "May I come in?" she asked.

"It looks like you already are in, Ruth."

Harry knew he should feel annoyed with her, but he just couldn't be angry. Ruth was in his house, and that was all that mattered.

* * *

 _ **A/N: I usually have a fic fully written before of begin to post, but not in this case. I am currently writing Chap 14, so clearly I have underestimated the length of this fic. At this stage it looks like being 15-16 chapters, but .. who knows?**_


	6. Chapter 6

_**A/N: Some M-ish images, language and concepts in this chapter.**_

* * *

Once Harry had turned on the light Ruth could see he wasn't so much angry as relieved, and she almost cried with relief herself. She knew she'd taken a huge liberty – perhaps risk - in breaking in through the back door of his house, but what other options had she?

"Harry, why didn't you answer your phone?"

"How could I answer my phone when it hasn't rung?"

"I rang at least a half dozen times. I left messages."

Harry had been moving slowly towards her, pushing the chairs under the table so that he wouldn't stub his toes. When he was only a yard or two away from her she noticed what he was wearing, and as her eyes glanced down his body she suspected that beneath his track pants he wore nothing at all. She stared a little too long at his crotch, wondering whether the curved shape inside his track pants was all cock. She glanced up at him to see shock and surprise on his face.

As realisation hit him, Harry began to turn away from her, pointing towards the upstairs of the house. "My dressing gown is upstairs," he said before leaving the room.

All the tension left Ruth's body and she grabbed the nearest chair and sat down, resting her elbows on the table as she pushed her fingers into her hair. What she had just done had probably put back their fragile emerging relationship by several months. She had openly ogled him, while her private thought had been something like, w _hy hadn't I known he was thus endowed?_ Harry was a man and he had never ogled her in any way. He'd only ever gazed at her in appreciation. Why was she unable to treat him with a similar level of respect?

Harry was only gone for a few minutes, and as he returned to the kitchen Ruth looked up to see him wearing a dark burgundy-coloured dressing gown, with slippers on his feet, and his phone in his hand.

"I owe you an apology, Ruth."

"No. I owe _you_ an apology."

"Whatever for?"

"For …," and Ruth could hardly say, `for staring at your cock.' "For embarrassing you," she finished lamely.

"My only embarrassment was in putting you in a situation where … well, you know the rest. The apology I owe you is because my phone had been turned off since around 5.30."

Ruth dropped her hands to the table top, her frown wrinkling her forehead. "Why would you do that?"

"I was preparing our meal, and I thought I'd check that you were going to be on time. When I found my phone it was … frozen, so I turned it off to reset it. At that moment I could smell something burning in the kitchen, so … well, in the confusion I forgot to turn my phone back on." He lifted his phone, and then put it on the table, shrugging slightly. "There are seven calls from you, so … I'm sorry. I've been thinking the very worst of you."

"Let me guess. You believed I'd run off with Jeremy."

Harry noticed the slight smile turning her lips, and he nodded. "I'm afraid so. I've been …" _Upset. Angry. Sad. Jealous as hell._

"Harry, surely you know me better than that. I said yes to your invitation to dinner, and I meant it. I'm here now because I wasn't sure what state you'd be in. I expected you to be angry." _Or even drunk._

"I was at first. I … I wondered what he has that I don't."

"Sit down," Ruth said gently, patting the chair across the corner from where she sat.

"First things first," he said, relaxing a little. "Have you eaten?" Ruth shook her head. "Are you hungry?" She nodded. "I still have our meals on plates. Would you like a very late dinner?"

"Yes, please. You haven't eaten?"

"I was waiting for you."

It took Ruth every measure of self control she possessed to not get up from her chair and give Harry a hug. It was too early in the evening for hugging, and it was possible that were they to begin hugging they would not make it to the part where they ate dinner. She nodded and smiled at him. Dear, sweet Harry. Beneath the hard spy exterior beat the heart of a gentle man.

* * *

Their meal was eaten in near silence. Neither wished to risk shattering the delicate truce which had been silently called between them. Neither wished to lose what they had, especially when what they had was little more than an imagined future, built upon a rocky and difficult past. As Harry ate, stealing quick glances at Ruth, he wondered would it be possible to keep her in his house with him forever. Ruth, noting his furtive looks towards her between mouthfuls, held close to her a wish that tonight might be different, and that perhaps they could traverse that uneven ground they always walked upon together. Perhaps on this night she could not upset him – nor he her – and when it came time to say goodnight they might be on much better terms with one another, although she wasn't yet sure whether it would be wise for her to stay the night were he to again suggest it.

When he felt Ruth relax across the corner of the table, Harry opened a bottle of white wine, pouring them each a generous glassful. By the time they'd finished their first bottle of wine, Ruth had shared with Harry the results of her search for the whereabouts of Melanie Grant.

"She left on her own, her backpack full of her possessions. I was able to trace her to the tube station nearest Jerry's flat, and after that I lost her. I've messaged Tariq, and he's promised to get in early tomorrow to follow it up." Ruth downed the last of her wine, and then gently placed her glass on the table in front of her. "I'm sorry the news isn't better. Before I drove here I messaged Dimitri, asking him to be …"

"Ready to go?"

"Yes. I think he's looking forward to it. Jerry has also prepared a piece naming Percival as the perpetrator. Hopefully the resulting fuss will overshadow any suggestion that you were involved." Ruth looked up at Harry and noticed a strange look on his face. She'd seen that expression before; she'd seen it the morning she'd left London to go into exile. What she saw on Harry's face was an expression of loss, defeat and even hopelessness. "Don't," she said quietly.

"Don't what?"

"Don't lose hope, Harry. We're all working on it. It's just that it would be preferable had the print media not got wind of it."

"If I'm named publicly my children will be humiliated." He sighed heavily. "Chances are my son will never speak to me again."

"Aren't you forgetting something?"

"What?"

"You're innocent."

"But mud sticks, and … people tend to believe the worst of others."

"I haven't."

"No. You haven't, and I'm .. grateful for at least that." Harry fiddled with his wine glass, running his fingertips over the glass's surface, while he thought how best to word his next question. He took a deep breath, and then began, lifting his eyes to hers. "Ruth .. was there ever a time when you .. believed the accusations .. about me?"

"Of course not."

Her quick glance downwards left him unconvinced. "Not even for a second?"

"Well, when Jerry first told me, I left the room and went to the bathroom, closing the door behind me. That was when I tried to ... imagine you being that kind of man, and ... Harry .." Ruth lifted her head and looked into his eyes, "I couldn't put together the man I know you to be and the kind of man who would have done those things, so .. no, I never believed it."

"Thank you," he said quietly, holding her gaze. He then dropped his eyes and sighed. "If only others who know me thought the same way."

It wasn't often that Ruth heard him sounding so defeated. They were again sitting across the corner of the table from one another, and so Ruth reached out with her hand and placed it on Harry's forearm. She had always found him to be incredibly attractive when dressed for work in a suit and tie, but she was warming to his dressed-for-bed look. The burgundy dressing gown sat softly against his skin and around his neck, and she really longed to run her palms over the material which covered his shoulders. Instead she slowly moved her hand to cover his own hand, and he surprised her by turning his hand in hers and intertwining their fingers, grasping her hand tightly in his own. His palm was warm, and she enjoyed the soft movement of his thumb against her forefinger. "You know, Ruth, you don't have to stay here with me. Your … association with me, your belief in me may not be in your best interests."

"I'm here because I want to be, and to hell with what anyone else thinks," she replied, squeezing his fingers slightly. For a very long moment they watched each other. In that moment Ruth decided she was ready for more with Harry. It's just that she didn't want to be the one to initiate any form of intimacy. It would devastate her were Harry to not return her interest. Perhaps he needed her there for support. Perhaps he wanted her to help him through this. Perhaps he saw her as a friend and nothing more; after all, in their long and turbulent history she'd not exactly returned his advances. "Harry …" she said, and she was unable to say anything more as he leaned down and placed his lips on hers. She was so shocked that she pulled back and then gasped, her eyes widening in surprise. Despite her reaction she still grasped Harry's hand tightly in her own.

"Ruth, I'm so sorry. I must have misread the signals." He pulled his hand from within her grasp and sat back in his chair, visibly embarrassed.

"No. You didn't misread, Harry. I … welcome your … kissing me."

"You have a very strange way of showing it," he said, mystified by her reaction. Suddenly he needed to distance himself from her, to protect himself, so he quickly stood and moved away from the table, resting his hips against the counter top.

Ruth knew that she had to talk fast. She wanted to get up and follow him, but she resisted that urge. "You … took me by surprise, that's all. Just before you … did that, I'd been wondering to myself about what you want of me, and I was sure you were looking for no more than friendship, and then …" The words had rattled out of Ruth's mouth, as her words so often did, and when she noticed him watching her with a smile on his lips, she dropped her eyes. _I am so, so stupid_ , she thought.

Harry quickly realised that she meant what she said, and that this time he had been the one who'd over reacted. He sighed, pushed himself away from the counter, and once again sat in the chair across the corner of the table from Ruth. Needing to mend the breach between them, he reached out and grasped her hand in his, again linking their fingers, and then resting their hands on the table between them. "How long ago was it I asked you to marry me?"

Ruth looked at a point just beneath Harry's chin, chiefly to avoid looking directly at him. "A little over a year," she mumbled.

"And why would I be looking for just friendship with you when I've pursued you relentlessly for more than five years? Any man with a brain in his head would have given up on you long ago, but not me." Harry sat back, suddenly exasperated with her.

"I'm sorry, Harry. I never meant to hurt you. It's just that …"

"What, Ruth? What is it keeps you from … returning what I feel for you. I know you care for me …" Harry hesitated while he pondered the wisdom of continuing. "I … know you're interested in me … physically."

Suddenly Ruth's eyes darted up to meet his, her face a mix of guilt and embarrassment. "Are you referring to what happened earlier?"

"Yes. You were interested, Ruth. Had you been Ros Myers you would have told me in no uncertain terms to go upstairs and put on something decent, but you …displayed definite interest." Again Ruth broke eye contact and dropped her gaze. Harry noticed the flush of embarrassment on her cheeks. He'd never loved her more than he did at that moment. "Ruth," he said quietly, knowing he was about to set them them up for possible failure, "look me in the eye and tell me you're not interested in me."

Ruth lifted her eyes, and to his surprise she held his gaze. "I can't say that … Harry."

"Can't say what?"

"That I'm not interested in you."

"And why would that be, Ruth?"

"Because I am … very interested … in you."

"Enough to come to bed with me tonight?"

Ruth's eyes widened in surprise. Harry had never been quite this direct … _ever_.

Then from the other end of the table Harry's phone rang.

"You'd best answer that," Ruth said, not taking her eyes from his.

"Not until you answer my question, Ruth. Will you spend the night with me?"

He could see that Ruth's breathing had deepened and quickened. "Alright," she said quietly, while the ringtone from Harry's phone chimed on.

"Alright what?" he asked.

"Shouldn't you -?"

"Alright what, Ruth?"

As suddenly as it began the phone stopped ringing. "Yes … I will … spend the night with you." Silently Ruth panicked. Was she ready for this?

Harry smiled into her eyes, hoping his smile reassured her, as he squeezed her fingers between his own. He leaned towards her as if to kiss her, and his phone again began to ring, the electronic trilling filling the kitchen. Harry leaned away and sighed, extricating his hand from Ruth's. He stood up and took the few steps to grab his phone from the other end of the table. "Yes?" he barked into the phone.


	7. Chapter 7

Ruth watched Harry as he listened to the voice – deep, male – on the other end of the phone. For almost five minutes his only verbal response was `yes', `no' and `I don't think so'. Then Harry became a little more animated, as well as voluble. From monosyllabic responses he answered in sentences - `well, thank you for that', `you can't be serious', `surely you've lost your mind', `not in a million years', and lastly, `you'll be hearing from my lawyer'.

"Not a friend then?" Ruth asked once he'd ended the call, deliberately and carefully placing his phone back on the table.

"A friend, but not the kind you mean," he said as he wandered back to his chair and sat down, linking his fingers in front of him on the table top.

"It was the mention of your lawyer that gave the game away." Harry watched Ruth as she spoke, noting the turning of her lips in a small smile. "In fact," she continued, "I'm surprised you haven't yet contacted your lawyer about … this other thing."

"I was waiting until either I was arrested, or this whole thing blew over. I'll have to contact him first thing in the morning. I could try him now, but I'm sure he sleeps some of the time." Harry coughed to clear his throat, his eyes on his fingers, which Ruth had already noted were moving in agitation. Suddenly she wondered at the wisdom of them spending the night together, especially with so much uncertainty around Harry's immediate future. "That was a man called Basil Friend," he said, his eyes on his own hands. "Strange surname for someone who is anything but my friend. He's some sub editor or other from The Daily Mail online." Harry then lifted his eyes from his hands to Ruth's face. He couldn't help himself; he sighed, and then smiled into her eyes. "He offered me a disgusting amount of money to admit to the sexual abuse of Melanie Grant in 1993. It appears that she has spoken to him – only in the last few hours – and she wants closure … which is another word I'd be happy were it struck from the English language."

"So …" Ruth began, "it sounds like he believes you're innocent of the crime."

"Yes, and he told me as much. The trouble it, he was so certain I'd take the money and then bear the consequences that he said a few things which perhaps would have been best left unsaid. Thus, my needing to ring Anthony."

"Anthony?"

"Anthony Bayliss. My lawyer."

Ruth dropped her eyes to her wine glass, still half full. _Or is it half empty?_ she thought, more to prevent herself from gazing at Harry's mouth with undisguised hunger. "What happens now?" she asked quietly.

Harry took his time in answering. "Ruth," he said at last, "look at me." When she did he continued. "We do what we agreed to do. We climb the stairs together and sleep in my bed … together."

"Just sleep?"

"You're out on your feet, Ruth, and it's late. As much as I really want .. something else, we both need to sleep first."

"I need a shower -"

"I have one of those."

"And something to sleep in."

Harry's instinct was to answer that he'd be happy were she to sleep naked, but then he'd not be able to sleep, knowing Ruth lay next to him without a stitch on. "I have some t-shirts which no longer fit me, and … er … if you need underwear, I don't have any women's … things, but I have some trunks which are tight on me, so …" For rather a long moment Ruth entertained a private image of Harry wearing trunks a couple of sizes too small for him, and apart from his obvious discomfort, she enjoyed the image … perhaps a little too much. "What is it?" he asked, noticing her smiling.

"Nothing. It's nothing."

The practical details dealt with, Ruth showered while Harry tidied the kitchen and turned out the lights. By the time Ruth entered his bedroom from the en suite bathroom he was sitting up in bed, reading glasses on his nose, a book about medieval warfare between his hands. "That looks … heavy for bedtime," she commented, heading to the other side of the bed, where she removed her dressing gown, a spare one of Harry's, and far too big for her.

"It helps me to sleep, knowing that at least I'll never have to contend with a rain of arrows through the windows, sword fights, or boiling oil being poured through my letterbox."

"Not to forget the mace and the morning star," Ruth added, climbing into bed.

Harry removed his reading glasses and watched the woman he had loved for far too long without being brave enough to doing anything about it. The pale blue t-shirt brought out the colour of her eyes, and he only allowed himself a quick glance at her chest, where her nipples pressed against the cotton fabric, unlike her clear and blatant staring at his crotch only a couple of hours earlier. He'd been shocked as well as pleased. He was in his late fifties, and a beautiful, desirable, and much younger woman had shown an interest in his aging body. He was looking forward to their becoming intimate; it couldn't happen soon enough for him, but he was prepared to wait.

He wanted to ask about how his underwear fitted her, but thought that question too personal for this moment when she had slid into bed beside him for the first – and hopefully not the last – time. He rather badly wanted to kiss her, but he needed to choose his moment. Clearly the time earlier in the evening when he'd only touched her lips with his before she'd pulled away had not been well chosen. He closed his book and placed it on the bedside table, folding his glasses and placing them on top of the book. When he turned back to Ruth she was sitting against her pillow watching him.

"Shall we have that kiss now?" she suggested.

Harry didn't need any further encouragement. He leaned towards her and was pleased that she also leaned towards him. She wrapped her arms around his neck, and with one hand cupping the back of his head she drew his head closer. He reached out under the duvet and placed his hands on her hips. The kiss was soft and careful, promising passion, but not yet brave enough to deliver. They pulled apart a little, made eye contact and smiled into the eyes of the other. This was nice. This was them, but better than ever before. Feeling braver than usual, Harry drew her hips against him. He felt her wrap her feet around his ankles, and he leaned in to kiss her once more. This time their lips parted and their tongues touched warily. Harry pressed his body even closer to hers, aware that his slowly growing arousal was pressing against her lower abdomen, and that were Ruth to change her mind, this would be the moment when she would choose to flee. Was he testing her? Of course he was. He didn't want to wake up in the morning to find her gone, a note on her pillow saying, _Sorry, Harry, I can't do this_.

Very slowly and carefully Harry pulled out of the kiss. Ruth's response was to give a little moan of disapproval. "Ruth, as much as I am enjoying this, we need to sleep." He planted a soft kiss on her cheek.

"I know, but I was enjoying that, and … I believe you were also." Her smile was cheeky.

"I was. Speaking for myself, I'll be much more … responsive in the morning. As will you."

"I hate it when you're right." She reached up to kiss him quickly and chastely, and then lay back on her own pillow, turning on her side to face him. "I want your face to be the first thing I see when I wake," she said quietly.

Harry was so moved by her words that he could say nothing in reply. _Me too_ sounded so banal. After he turned to switch out the lamp on his bedside table he lay on his side facing Ruth, one hand under his head, and closed his eyes. If nothing else happened between them, at least he'd have this night with her.

* * *

When Ruth opened her eyes she could tell it was early morning. There was a soft light in the room, although no light was on. It was then that she noticed she was in Harry's bed, and she was alone. So much for waking up to see his face. She lay back on her pillow and sighed, listening for any indication that he was in the house. After she'd taken into account the sounds of early morning traffic, and the (almost) inevitable sound of light rain falling outside, she was sure she could hear activity downstairs. Once she'd listened a little longer she heard Harry's voice. Remembering that this was Monday morning and so a working day for her, she leaned on one elbow and squinted at the digital clock on Harry's bedside table. With her eyes still blurry from sleep, she wasn't sure whether she read the time as 6:13 or 8:13. Hopefully it was the former.

She heard a light knock on the bedroom door, and then Harry entered carrying a tray. "Your breakfast," he said, placing the tray on the bedside table. "I hope you like tea and toast. I haven't much else, I'm afraid."

Ruth shuffled to an sitting position, making sure she pulled the duvet up to cover her to her waist. Harry was dressed in slacks, shirt and a jacket, so the probability of anything more happening between them this time around seemed slim. Having taken in his appearance Ruth sighed, but found it hard to smile. Harry noticed, and so sat on the side of the bed.

"I'm sorry, Ruth. I know I implied we'd be able to … get closer this morning, but I have an appointment with my lawyer at 7.30. I need to know what to do should … the worst occur." Ruth nodded. She understood. In fact, she always understood, but that didn't stop her from being disappointed. "I just received a phone call from my ex-wife."

This news had Ruth widening her eyes, disappointment forgotten, curiosity piqued. "I hadn't known you were on good terms with your ex-wife, Harry."

"As it turns out neither did I. It seems that an online news blog, one of those private ones, has run the story, complete with several photographs of the same man who'd abused Melanie Grant. All these photos are quite explicit, meaning … his private parts are visible, and he's … fully erect. The report names me, but only shows a pixelised photograph of me. My daughter read the blog, rang her mother, who then rang me – at just after 5 am. The story appears again in a couple of the morning newspapers, this time naming me, but without mentioning MI5, which is why I need to see my lawyer as soon as possible." While he'd been talking, Harry had poured a cup of tea for Ruth, adding milk and sugar in the way he knew she took it. Then he passed a plate of buttered toast with honey across the bed, and rested it on the duvet in front of her. "Jane rang me to tell me she'd also read the blog and could see clearly that the man in the photographs could not have been me. She has … offered to make a statement to that effect."

"To the effect that it could not be you, because she … knows what you look like … naked."

"That's right." Harry had lifted one eyebrow, partly at the improbability of them having this conversation, and partly at Ruth's difficulty in completing her sentence.

"Why would she do that? Most ex-wives I have known would relish the chance to witness the downfall of their former partner."

"Despite Jane's and my rather acrimonious breakup, we are still able to be civil towards one another. Her reasons for offering to do this – as she told me an hour or so ago – are that she doesn't wish our children to be shamed, especially since it's clear that the guy with his dick out is not me. Sorry, Ruth. I didn't mean to be crude."

"That's alright. There are worse words for it."

"I suggested she see her own lawyer today, just so she knows what to say and to whom she should say it."

"So the lawyers are doing well out of this, then."

Harry nodded, and then he stared at Ruth, his eyes taking in the details of her face, her neck, and her shoulders. He felt a stirring in his groin. Damn the world outside this room. He just wished he could take Ruth's hand and run away from all this … just for 24 hours. He sighed heavily, knowing that in ten minutes he needed to be leaving to visit his lawyer. He shifted his body to get closer to Ruth, and then he leaned towards her. Anticipating his intention, Ruth quickly placed her plate and cup and saucer on her bedside table, and then turned to grasp Harry's shoulders as he leaned closer to her. He waited until she had made the first move. Ruth placed her lips on his and they kissed a deep and soulful kiss which seemed to go on and on and on, never stepping over the line into full blown passion, but still remaining an evocative expression of love. Ruth had felt Harry's fingers glance down her neck to her throat, and then over the fabric of the t-shirt to her chest, where he cupped her breast, and then his thumb lightly brushed over her nipple, again and again. When Ruth moaned into his mouth Harry drew out of the kiss, his fingers still running over the fabric of the t-shirt, and then down her side to her hip.

"Why did you stop?" Ruth whispered, her eyes still closed.

"Because, Ruth, if I didn't stop now, I'd not make it to my lawyer on time."

"Sod your lawyer," she said, opening her eyes to see him smiling at her.

"I couldn't agree more."

"Sod all lawyers." Harry smiled widely, removing his hand from Ruth's hip. It had been beautiful while it lasted. "Why did you even start … that if you have to go now? That was hardly playing fair," she continued.

"Ruth … I needed something … a memory to hang on to, to keep me going. Didn't you?"

"I suppose so."

"Now I have to go." Harry reached across and ran his finger across the line of her lips, and then he stood. "I'll ring you," he said, and then turned to leave the room.

"I'll leave by the back door then, shall I?" she called to him.

"I've left you a key on the kitchen table. It might be easier than breaking in." He smiled at her once more, and then left.

Ruth lay back against the pillow and breathed out heavily. She'd rather spend the day lying in Harry's bed, waiting for him to come home, but sadly, work beckoned.


	8. Chapter 8

_**A/N : This chapter contains some brief descriptions of sexual abuse of a child, so I'm just issuing this warning.**_

 _ **Again, many thanks to those who are reading and reviewing also.**_

* * *

Ruth had showered, dressed in her clothes from the day before, and had just turned towards the kitchen when she heard a sound from the living room. She stood statue still, her breakfast tray in her hands, which were shaking just a tiny bit. What to do? Her phone was in her bag, which she'd left on one of the chairs in the kitchen. Very slowly she began to tiptoe towards the kitchen door.

"Damn pests," a deep male voice said from behind her, "they're gathering outside. Like vultures they are. It's a good thing Harry left when he did. I counted seven of the sods."

Ruth turned to see a tall man – well dressed, elderly, in his late 70's or early 80's - a trim grey moustache on his upper lip to match his grey trousers and grey cardigan, along with a grey tie worn with a white shirt – standing just outside the door to the living room.

"But where are my manners?" he said, reaching one hand towards Ruth. "I'm Harry's neighbour, the one with the door in my garden wall. Bob Rundle's the name. You must be Ruth." Ruth smiled at him weakly, and then lifted the tray to show him her hands were full. "Here, let me take that." And Bob strode towards her, taking the tray from her hands and leading the way into the kitchen, where he placed it on the sink. "Let me deal with this. Harry told me you'd be hurrying off to work."

"Harry told me nothing at all about you … other than you live next door."

"Poor lad, he has enough to worry about. I'm looking after the house while he's out. If any of those journalists gives any trouble -"

Just as he said the word `journalists' there was a sharp knock on the front door.

"That'll be them," Bob said, heading past Ruth to the doorway. "Let me handle this, Ruth. I was in Korea in `52. A handful of scribblers doesn't daunt me. They're nothing compared with the North Koreans." And Ruth watched him as he strode from the kitchen and down the hallway to the front door. "They could learn a thing or two from the North Koreans."

Ruth stood at the sink, wondering whether she should at least begin to wash her breakfast things when her phone rang from inside her bag. She pushed her hand into the depths of her bag and brought it out, noting Jeremy Nevill's name on the display. She considered blocking the call, but also recognised that Harry's career hung in the balance, and Jerry was the one most likely to bring the truth to the surface.

"Jerry?" she said.

"Ruth … are you free to come here now?"

"Where exactly is here?"

"My flat. I'm not usually up at this ungodly hour -" Ruth lifted her eyes to the microwave, where she noted the time was 7.03, hardly `ungodly' - "but I found something, and I think you need to see it."

"Have you heard from Melanie?"

"No, but she must have talked to someone yesterday or last evening. How soon can you get here?" Then Jerry rattled off his address in Camden.

"I should be able to make it in … around thirty minutes. Sooner if the traffic allows it."

"I'll expect you in forty-five. I'll put the kettle on. I have a need of a coffee as strong as a mule's kick."

Ruth had put her phone back in her bag when she realised she should probably call Erin, so she made a quick call to the Grid, where Tariq answered the phone, and Ruth asked him to pass on a message to Erin that she'd be late in.

"But what if she gets angry with me?" he said.

"Tariq, if she's angry with anyone it will be me. Just tell her that I'm still following up details in relation to the accusations made against Harry. He's seeing his lawyer this morning, and I have another appointment with the journalist who first broke the story."

"Right, Ruth. Will do." As Tariq put down the phone he had a brief thought that Ruth seemed to know an awful lot about Harry's comings and goings, and at just after 7 in the morning, that sounded to him quite suspicious. Perhaps she and Harry had something going on between them. He wouldn't share his suspicions, of course. That would only make Ruth mad with him, and he had enough people mad at him already.

Ruth was just about to leave through the back door when she remembered that Harry had left her a key to his house. There it was beside the sugar bowl, holding down a note which simply said `Ruth'. She picked up the key on its silver keyring and wrapped her fingers around it. To her the key represented something more than the ability to enter this house without having to pick the lock. It meant that the relationship between them had undergone a quite subtle development. It meant that Harry trusted her beyond the boundaries of the Grid. It meant she was welcome in his home. It meant that Harry wanted them to be a couple. Ruth smiled to herself as she slipped the key into an inside pocket of her bag.

"Intrusive lot, journalists," Bob said, heading back towards the kitchen. "I told them that I live here, and that they have the wrong address. Damned if I know how they found out Harry lives here." It was apparent to Ruth that Bob lived alone. It appeared he didn't require another person to reply to his statements. He just spoke to the air, and for all she knew the air may have spoken back.

"I think that being intrusive is a necessary trait for journalists," Ruth said once Bob was standing in the kitchen doorway.

"True. True, but I'd rather they do it elsewhere and leave poor Harry alone. Can you imagine him doing what they're saying he's done?" Ruth shook her head. She meant it. That sort of behaviour was simply not like the Harry she knew. "Mob of bastards they are. Pardon my language. It's the army. One never quite loses the habit of swearing. It used to drive my Marjorie quite mad."

By the time Ruth drove away in her MI5 pool car, fifteen minutes had already passed since she'd promised to meet Jerry at his flat. She'd been about to leave when Bob had launched into the story of how his wife, Marjorie, had died three years earlier, and he had not adjusted well to living alone. Ruth hoped she'd not be at Jerry's for too long. She had work waiting for her at Thames House, and before that she had to go home and change her clothes.

* * *

"This is the reason I called you here," Jerry said, holding up a small yellow USB drive, its thin black lanyard dangling over his wrist. "Melanie left it in the coffee jar. She knows I like my coffee, so she knew I'd find it …. eventually."

"Have you heard from her?" Ruth asked, sitting at his compact kitchen table, a cup of hot coffee in front of her. Jerry shook his head and then took a sip of his coffee. "Have you accessed it?"

"Of course I've bloody accessed it. What's on it is the reason I dragged you here. Were I to lose it, this whole case could be messy."

Ruth thought the case already was rather messy, especially for Harry. "So … what's on it?"

Jerry wriggled in his seat, and then leaned over to grab a laptop from the counter behind him. "I have everything from the USB drive on here, and on top of that I've copied the contents onto two other drives. This one is for you." Jerry handed Ruth a green USB drive with a yellow lanyard. "Keep it somewhere safe. I suggest you keep it in a safe, or better still a locked drawer in your desk at work. Your home – or even Harry's home – may not be the safest place."

"The second copy?"

"I have an appointment with my lawyer at twelve today. He'll want a copy."

Ruth sipped her coffee again, giving herself thinking time. So you're saying that … Melanie had more information than she'd previously shared with you?"

Jerry nodded. "Much, much more. I suspect she was testing me, to see if I was serious about telling her story. I also suspect the story got much bigger than she'd expected. The public interest and scrutiny will be difficult for her." Then he placed the laptop where both he and Ruth could see the screen, and scrolled through images – similar to the one she'd already seen, but with more detail, and many of them much more graphic.

"God," Ruth said, covering her mouth with her hand as she was faced with yet another image of the 8-year-old Melanie giving oral sex to the man she'd identified as Harry Pearce. Fortunately the `other Harry Pearce' was not terribly well endowed, so the child was able to take him in her mouth, evident in the following three or four images. Ruth's instinct was to scroll quickly from image to image so as to not allow herself time to absorb the terrible reality of what she was seeing. Jerry had other ideas.

"Look at it carefully, Ruth. Could that possibly be Harry Pearce?"

"No, it's definitely not Harry."

Not knowing Hector Percival, Ruth could only surmise that it was he. He had more hair than in the photograph she'd seen, and his face was distorted in a rhapsodic expression, so his features were difficult to see. She continued to scroll through the images as rapidly as she could, until she reached the end.

"Now for the video images," Jeremy said, taking back the laptop and opening another folder.

Ruth ran a hand through her hair. As much as she didn't want to see any more, she knew she had to. By the time she'd watched footage of Melanie Grant engaging in many various sexual acts with the same man, she reached the very last video. "This one is less than two minutes."

"Thank God for that," Ruth breathed, feeling the roiling of nausea in her gut from what she had already seen. In the last video Melanie was sitting on the knee of a fully clothed man. He looked familiar to Ruth, but given this had been filmed eighteen years earlier, it was difficult to determine the man's identity. After thirty seconds or so it was clear that the man had opened his trousers and had grasped Melanie's hand and placed it inside his trousers. It was clear that the girl knew what was expected of her. He'd smiled at her, and even though her face was turned away from the camera, his face was not. "That's Lord Prentice," she said quietly. "Chancellor of the Exchequer in the Thatcher government." She looked up at Jerry to see him nod.

"So you see what I mean by explosive, Ruth. This … circle of men had been using children from children's homes since around 1982, so he would have been kiddie fiddling at the same time as he was fiddling the country's books."

Ruth sighed heavily, pushing the laptop away from her. If a senior cabinet minister was capable of this, then how many more were there, and how high up in government did this activity go? Her next port of call needed to be her own home. She needed another shower to wash away the images, and she needed a change of clothes. But one question had been sitting on the tip of her tongue for some time. "Jerry ….. from where did Melanie obtain these images, and the videos?"

"They were sent to her in the mail – Royal Mail delivery to a PO box in Epping, near where she lives. Anonymous, but she has an idea as to who it might be, although she hasn't yet told me. If and when this goes to court she may have to name her source, and -"

"That will place her life in danger," Ruth finished for him.

"I believe it will."

* * *

Harry spent just over an hour with his lawyer, and as he left Anthony's office he pressed Ruth's number on his phone. The call went straight to voice mail, and so he left a brief message for her, not wanting to give too much away. He surmised she'd be at work, and was perhaps still in a briefing meeting. He felt a stab of disappointment. He'd been looking forward to talking to her. He wondered should he invite her around for dinner that evening. Was it too soon? Was he perhaps crowding her? He wished he knew the protocol of relationships. He'd always been rather good at the chasing, and then the conquest. It was the rules of sustaining a meaningful relationship with a woman which had always caused him problems. He'd never been skilled at reading the signals. In his relationship past he'd simply given up and moved on. Here he was at age fifty-seven, and he didn't want to move on. He had found the woman with whom he wished to grow old, so what he did, and how he acted mattered … a lot.

* * *

Ruth had only just stepped out of her shower and was heading to her bedroom when her phone rang. Pulling her dressing gown tightly around her she grabbed her phone from the inside pocket of her bag. The number was private, so it was probably not Harry. She felt annoyed as well as disappointed, more with herself for wanting so much to hear his voice. Ruth had never liked losing her head and her heart to another, and yet Harry had owned both for quite some time.

"Ruth speaking," she said, hoping it wasn't some crafty journalist wanting information about Harry.

"Ruth – you're a difficult woman to find. I had to ring Erin Watts to get your mobile number. It's William Towers. I need a favour from you. Can you meet me for lunch today? Twelve-thirty?"

Ruth had known who it was by the time he'd spoken three words. The Home Secretary had quite a distinctive voice. He also loved to talk, and had assumed Ruth would answer to the affirmative.

"Can I ask what your favour is about, Home Secretary," she said, hoping he'd not be offended. "It's just that I'm flat out today, and it doesn't look like becoming quieter."

"I need to ask you a few things about Harry."

"Couldn't you ask him directly?"

"Not really. I thought you may be less … reactive than he is prone to being. We can have a sandwich at Berry's. It's small bistro the other side of the river. I'll send a car for you. 12.15. Please say yes."

He was a persuasive man, and so Ruth relented. It might be fun, although she wasn't sure that Berry's sold anything as mundane as a sandwich.

By the time Ruth stepped onto the Grid it had just gone 11.20, and so she only had a little under an hour before she was to leave to have lunch with Towers. As Ruth crossed the Grid to her desk she was aware of a strange level of tension in the room. She ignored the others while she unlocked her bottom drawer, and then removed the USB drive that Jerry had given her, and pushed it to the back and underneath some other files before re-locking the drawer. Only then did she look around her. She noticed both Tariq and Calum watching her, but it was Erin who crossed the floor to her desk, and grabbed a spare chair from Dimitri's desk. Dimitri was nowhere to be seen.

"Have you heard the news, Ruth?"

"News? No. Has something happened?" Ruth hadn't tried to ring Harry, nor had she checked her voice mail messages, otherwise she would have known he'd tried to contact her. Her first thought was of him, and she felt her stomach muscles clench with fear.

"Something has, yes. Just over an hour ago Melanie Grant was found under a railway bridge just off the Holloway Road. She'd been covered by bin liners."

Ruth felt a sharp stab of dread, followed by a ringing in her ears. "Dead?"

"No, but had a group of children not stumbled upon her when they did she may have been. She was unconscious and was rushed to hospital. Last I heard she had not yet regained consciousness. She had her bag with her, and her phone and wallet, complete with her cards and drivers licence were beside where she lay. The police are treating this as an attempted murder. I spoke to a representative from the Met only twenty minutes ago, and they want to question Harry."

" _Why_? What has this to do with Harry?" Privately Ruth was bewildered as to why the children who'd found her hadn't nicked her bag and left her there to die.

"Tucked underneath the strap of Melanie Grant's bra they found an old photograph of a young child. Police assumed it was a photo of her taken at the time the sexual abuses took place. She is dressed in a short skirt and white singlet, and she's smiling at the camera."

"Whatever does that mean?"

"I'm not sure, but it seems that whoever tried to kill her was involved with her at the time when the picture was taken. My guess would be that whoever did this did it because they knew she'd been talking."


	9. Chapter 9

Once Erin walked away from her desk, Ruth grabbed her phone, planning to ring Harry. It was then she noticed the missed call, and so she listened to his voice mail. The message he'd sent was so normal – a man trying to make a connection with the woman he fancied. She smiled and listened again to his message. She wouldn't delete it. She might want to listen to it again. Then she called Harry's phone. It rang and rang and she was about to hang up when he answered.

"Ruth? I've been waiting for ages to talk to you. You can't imagine -"

"Harry, where are you?"

"At home. Why?"

"How did you get in? There were journalists there earlier."

"I got in through the back, through the gate in Bob's fence. You made quite an impression on Bob. He thinks -"

"Harry, please listen to me. Have the police tried to contact you?"

"Yes. I got a call from them around fifteen minutes ago. They're sending around a couple of detectives to question me about ….. you have heard, haven't you? It's been on the news."

"Yes. I've only just heard. Harry, Erin was able to tell me that the attack on Melanie Grant most likely took place some time between 11 pm and 1 o'clock this morning. I was with you then, so if you need someone to … vouch for you, tell them to speak to me."

Ruth could feel the silence from Harry. She knew what he was about to say even before he spoke. Sure enough. "I can't allow you to do that, Ruth. What if -"

"You can't stop me, any more than you can prevent Jane from speaking for you. By the way, I have evidence that is so … fundamentally explosive that she will no longer need to speak out on your behalf. Perhaps you can let her know."

"I believe she had an appointment with her lawyer this morning, and her lawyer will confer with my lawyer."

"Harry .. you need to let the police know where you were and who you were with last night. Will you please do that? If you won't do it for yourself, then do it for me … please."

Again she was met with a long silence, which ended when she heard Harry sigh heavily. "Very well. I'll do that."

Ruth knew that Harry had rung her as much to hear her voice as anything else. The closer they moved towards one another, the more Harry proved that he was a hopeless romantic. Ruth had been continually surprised by this, and was having difficulty trusting what she was learning about him. Harry was tough – hard and uncompromising. His demeanour was softened by his strict moral compass, but that was all. He was not terribly sentimental – one couldn't afford to be in this business – and he had had to make hard decisions which benefited the greater good of the population.

So why had he given away Albany? Why did his face soften whenever his eyes caught hers? Why was his touch so gentle, and why was he so protective of those he loved? Ruth hadn't time for thinking too much about Harry. She would drop in to see him after work. In the meantime there was peculiar activity around the Brixton group, and Erin had asked her to investigate.

The longer Ruth looked at her evidence, the more she leaned towards a Russian connection, until she at last gave herself permission to investigate the possibility of a Russian connection, and the Russian connection had to be behind the Russian delegation being in London.

"You have to ignore that evidence, Ruth," Erin had said. "The Home Secretary made it clear that we should not upset Russia."

The Home Secretary! Ruth had almost forgotten her lunch with Towers. Glancing at the time on her monitor she had only a few minutes before a car would arrive to pick her up. Ruth had only just gathered her things together, flinging a silk scarf around her neck in an attempt to appear more dressy, when Erin called to her from outside Harry's office.

"There's a car for you out front, Ruth."

Ruth thanked Erin and bustled past her to the doors. She nodded to the acting Section Head, and then hurried to the lifts. She was only two minutes late arriving at Berry's. Privately, Ruth would be glad when the Russians had gone back to Russia, the abuse story had been sorted and then put to bed, so that Harry could return to work and things could go back to normal. She missed him. She missed lifting her eyes to see him in his office, poring over reports, his brow furrowed in concentration, arguing with someone on the phone, or watching her. Most of all she missed having him watch her.

As she approached his table the Home Secretary stood and indicated the chair opposite his. "I've already ordered for you, Ruth. Just a Greek salad. I hope that's alright."

Ruth was too curious about Towers' true motives to care about what he had ordered for her to eat. Within minutes of her taking her seat opposite the Home Secretary their food arrived, and Towers wasted no time in launching into his reasons for the lunch invitation.

"Ruth – I can call you Ruth, I hope."

"Of course … Home Secretary."

"Ruth, it appears to me that you are the member of Section D who is closest to Harry. This … this accusation against him is unfortunate, of course, although I don't believe a word of it. I've watched him with you, and he's quite … well, he's clearly very fond of you. If I didn't know better I'd suspect he was in love with you, so I find it impossible to accept that he has any other preference than for attractive women." Realising perhaps that his words may have sounded smarmy or oily, Towers fiddled with his cutlery, taking a moment to focus. Ruth picked at her salad, choosing to eat all the olives before she tackled the rest. "I'm looking for your honest opinion. Do you think that, given the recent Albany incident, the untimely death of Lucas North, and now this unfortunate business from 1993 … do you think that Harry can still cut it as Section Head?"

Ruth dropped her fork with a clatter. "Cut it? I'd say that you're lucky to have him." She took a breath before she continued, realising that her response may have given away more than she would be comfortable with the Home Secretary knowing. "Harry is a dedicated and honest man, Home Secretary. With him at the helm we all know that we are working under the best there is, and he will back his agents to the detriment of his own reputation." Ruth looked down, giving herself time to calm down. It's just that Towers had touched a nerve.

"Good, good," he said. "You've answered in exactly the way I hoped you would. I have enormous faith in Harry, but his reluctance to engage with the Russian delegation has upset a number of members of Cabinet."

"Why? He has his reasons, and I was under the impression the security is being amply handled by Section B."

"Are you aware of any … history Harry may have with the Gavrik family? They are the ones who form the core of the Russian group."

"I suggest you ask him that yourself, Home Secretary. I can give my opinion of Harry's work, but I am not prepared to speak on his behalf about anything else ... at least, not without his permission."

"Of course, of course. How clumsy of me." Towers took a sip from his glass of water, watching Ruth as she looked around the room. "So … do you think he'll be able to successfully deal with this paedophilia accusation?"

"I'm sure he will. My only concern is that while it is being sorted he is unable to work, although I do … understand the reasons for his temporary suspension."

"When are you next planning to see him?" Towers' words slid out with the ease of a snake slithering through the undergrowth. "It doesn't look good, him being suspended so soon after his suspension after that debacle with Albany. His only saving grace there was that the blasted thing didn't work."

Ruth felt her stomach drop, and she carefully laid her fork beside her plate. "What do you mean?"

"He hasn't told you?" Ruth shook her head. "Ah. I dare say I'm speaking out of turn." Towers uttered a brief, embarrassed laugh. "Harry knew it only had power as a deterrent, but his actions were still – technically – an act of treason. Perhaps it would be best were you to not let him know that you know. His … gesture suddenly appears less … noble."

Ruth had no idea what to say in response, so she behaved as though Towers had never mentioned Albany. "My plan is to drop in on Harry later today. I think it's important to touch base with him, and to let him know what's happening at work. I believe that he needs the support of his team, regardless of the accusations against him. I'm assuming he will be back at work as soon as they are dropped."

"Yes, yes, of course." Towers took a long moment to pick at his own salad, his preference seeming to be for the fetta cheese. "I have another question for you, but I'm not sure that this is quite the right time to be asking this of you."

"Perhaps were you to ask me I could then tell you if it's … the right time."

Towers smiled across the table at Ruth. She was able to detect that he had been back-footed by her honesty and her bluntness. Only a week earlier she would never have spoken to this man in such a direct way. It's just that Ruth's current concern was for Harry, and as she saw it everything else was so much noise – politics, the government, the Russian talks, all of it.

"Perhaps I could save that topic for another day, Ruth. I sense that you have a lot on your mind."

"I can't remember when last I didn't have a lot on my mind, certainly not since I returned from exile."

"Yes, I already knew about that. It's time I got back to the mines -" Towers took a very deliberate look at his phone, supposedly to check the time. "I'll have Craig drive you back to Thames House, Ruth. In the mean time … given your particular skill set, can you give some thought to what might be your ideal job … just as an exercise."

Ruth was taken completely by surprise. Was he offering her a job? Was he planning to create a special position for her? "Of course," was all she said. What does one say to the Home Secretary of the United Kingdom when he implies that he is prepared to create a dream job for the senior intelligence analyst from Section D?

* * *

By 5 o'clock Ruth had prepared her report for Erin, and so she waited until Erin was out of the office before she delivered the report to the acting Section Head's in tray. She had no wish to discuss her findings with Erin, whom she already knew would reject her recommendations. As Ruth saw her role she was an analyst and not a diplomat. As she left Harry's office she glanced quickly out at the Grid. Only Calum appeared to notice her leaving, his eyebrows drawn together in a frown of what Ruth could only assume was disapproval. To hell with them all. She had more important things to be doing.

Ruth was waiting at a red light when her phone rang. Noting the time on the car's clock she picked up her phone from the seat beside her and pressed answer, and then loudspeaker, carefully placing the phone on the dash.

"Harry? I'm on the way to your place," she said, taking off as the lights turned green.

"I've been called into the Holborn police station."

"I thought they were interviewing you at home."

"So did I, but then they rang me to ask could I attend in person." Ruth almost heard the wheels of his brain turning as he worked out how to continue. "Ruth, could you perhaps ..?"

"I'll be there as soon as I can. Tell them to expect me."

Ruth ended the call before he had a chance to properly thank her. It took her almost fifty minutes to reach the police station, and once inside she needed to find Harry.

"Mr Pearce is in Interview Room 4," the young desk sergeant said, smiling politely. "Can I please have your name?"

"I'm Ruth Evershed, and I have -"

"DCI Crossley is expecting you."

She'd expected to have to wait for at least an hour, but Ruth was ushered into Interview Room 6, offered coffee or tea, and left sitting there for around ten minutes before the DCI and a woman police constable entered the room and sat opposite her.

"Do you require legal representation?" was the first question asked by the sharp suited, late 30's DCI. _Probably on a fast track_ , she thought, hoping she'd be able to keep a check on her temper. When she answered in the negative, he dived right in.

"What is the nature of your relationship with Sir Harry Pearce?"

"He's my boss, as well as my closest friend."

"Are you in a sexual relationship with Sir Harry?"

"No," she said, deciding to let them work for their answers.

"So, you are in a romantic relationship with him?"

"Define romantic."

"Are you in love with Mr Pearce?"

"What has that to do with this interview? I have come here of my own free will, and I am telling you that I was with Harry Pearce for the whole time last night, from 10.30 pm until just after 6.30 this morning, when he left his home for an appointment with his lawyer at 7.30. Whether I am in love with him or not is immaterial."

The DCI sighed heavily and Ruth caught the smile around the mouth of the PC. Perhaps the young PC also found the man pretentious and arrogant. Ruth wasn't about to share any details of her relationship with Harry, especially when the true nature of their relationship was almost beyond a mere one-word description. Of course it was a romantic relationship - a glance stolen when no-one else was looking, a brush of his hand over hers, the touch of their shoulders as they stood side by side on the roof balcony – it was all terribly, terribly romantic and sexy, but not yet sexual, and that was the very thing which made it so beautiful. In that moment that she was reflecting on her relationship with Harry, Ruth also recognised that she enjoyed the romantic nature of what they shared. She enjoyed the sexiness, but without the sex, and she was afraid that were they to take themselves into a sexual relationship, then the romance - the accidental touching, the stolen glances, the headiness, the heat - might be no more. Ruth quickly shook herself into the present.

"Was Mr Pearce in bed for the whole night?"

"Since he was sleeping, yes. His phone rang at around 5 – it was his ex-wife – and he stayed out of bed after that, bringing me breakfast in bed at around 6.25."

"Do you think it strange that you slept with Mr Pearce, and yet, as you claim, you are not in a sexual relationship?"

"Not at all. How many people who are in sexual relationships have sex every time they share a bed?" The DCI shared an uncomfortable look with the female constable, and Ruth surmised there was probably something like she and Harry had emerging between the two of them. "Harry and I are very close. We work together closely and I consider that I know him better than anyone knows him."

"So whatever he'd been accused of you'd provide an alibi for him?"

"Of course not. If I thought even for a second that Harry had done what he is accused of doing to that child, and what was done to that young woman overnight I'd not share a bed with him. I know that his sexual preference is for adult women. I was with him during the time frame during which Melanie Grant was attacked. I know he is innocent."

DCI Crossley sat back and switched off the recording equipment. "Thank you, Ms Evershed. You are free to go."

"And Harry?"

The young DCI smiled for the first time since he'd entered the interview room. "I think you'll find him waiting for you in the foyer."

And he was. Ruth had never been so happy to see Harry in her life. He reached out and took her hand, turned and led her out of the station. "Let's grab a bite to eat," he said. It had just gone 6.45 pm.


	10. Chapter 10

Driving the Thames House pool car, Ruth followed Harry through the early evening traffic to a small pub near his house.

"I used to eat here several times a week," he said, when he brought a single malt for himself and a white wine for her to their table against the wall, where the noise from the bar was muffled by distance and the bodies of numerous other patrons. They sat across from one another on padded bench seats, gazing across at the other and then looking away, each hyper-aware of the close presence of the other.

"Why don't you still?" Ruth asked, her eyes on the drink in front of her, but occasionally nervously flicking up to meet his own.

"I'm usually too tired, and it's often late when I get home. I either pick up something on the way home or I cook sausages and eggs for myself at home."

To most people Harry's life would sound difficult and stressful, long days followed by evenings spent alone. For the first time Ruth was prepared to consider that were she and Harry to share their lives, the companionship alone which they shared would take the edge off the long days, and their nights would never again be lonely.

"Have you decided what you want to eat?" Harry said after a few minutes of blatantly watching Ruth sip her wine while she avoided eye contact with him.

"Just some soup, I think, with crusty bread."

"They have pea and ham soup or pea and ham soup."

"Pea and ham sounds fine, Harry."

Harry again left the table to place their food order, and Ruth was reminded again how much like a couple they felt. They fitted together like one's favourite pair of old shoes, too well made and too comfortable to throw away; too much time spent in one another's company, too many memories, and too much love between them, waiting for just the right time to be openly expressed.

When he returned from placing their food order Ruth reached her hand across the table and Harry took it, smiling into her eyes. "This is nice," he said, squeezing her fingers between his as he grasped her hand more tightly.

"I don't want to go home tonight," Ruth said.

"Then don't. You know how much I want you to stay with me."

She did of course, but she needed to sleep. "I have to face Erin tomorrow. I've put in a report about a weapons group in Brixton. I believe that there's a Russian connection, and that the Russian trade meeting is in some way just a smoke screen. The trade talks are little more than a ruse to lull us into trusting them." Harry's silence, combined with the increased pressure of his fingers around hers told Ruth that she had hit a nerve. "Tell me about the Russians, Harry. I know that you and these people share a history."

At just that moment their soup was delivered to their table, and so they ate in silence, each buried in their own thoughts. Once they'd finished eating, Harry continued their conversation, deftly avoiding Ruth's question about the Russians.

"You haven't asked about my police interview, Ruth."

"I've been waiting for you to offer the information."

He smiled at that, relaxing a little. "It was fairly predictable. I get the sense that the police love it when a member of the security service comes in for questioning. They threw all the usual interrogation techniques at me and I … threw a few of my own right back. After around an hour they agreed that there was no reason to hold me. I suggested to them that the person they were looking for was at least ten years older than me, and had a name which sounded similar to my own. Again they agreed. In fact, they were so .. casual about letting me go that I suspect they know all about the group who took children from children's homes, and they are marking time, waiting until they have sufficient evidence." Harry reached across and took Ruth's hand in both of his. He looked intently at her hand. "Do you know, Ruth … there's something about all this which bothers me a lot, and I need to say this." He squeezed Ruth's hand as he struggled to express himself. "You know how much I appreciate what you've done, how you've stood beside me ..."

"I've only done what you would have done for me, Harry. I never considered leaving you to deal with it alone."

"But that's the thing, you see. Do you know what I'm saying?" Ruth shook her head, completely lost. "I can look after myself. I have the resources of the security service behind me, but that girl – Melanie – who is it has been looking after her?"

"Jeremy was hiding her in his flat. It appears she left of her own accord."

"Ruth, you're not listening." He took one of his hands from hers, but still grasped her hand tightly with his other hand. "Jerry was looking after her so that she could help him with his story. In a way he was no different than those men who abused her."

"Now hang on -"

"Ruth, hear me out. The answers to this whole thing are with her."

"I agree."

"So who else knows that? Who knows that she knows the names of some rich and powerful people?"

"Jerry knows."

"He's just an opportunist."

"Harry, I think he was attempting to tell her story in order to empower her, to give her a voice. People like Melanie – who have endured terrible things as children – need someone to listen to them and to believe them."

Harry dropped his head and sighed heavily. When he lifted his head Ruth noticed how tired he looked. "I know, but I also think there's something else that Jerry knows, perhaps without knowing he knows."

Ruth shook her head, smiling. "We're tired, Harry. Perhaps we should go home."

"Together?" He thought it worth a try.

"For a while. I'd love a cup of sweet tea, and then I must head home. I need sleep."

"You can sleep in my bed, with me."

For a brief moment Ruth was tempted. She watched him from across the table, noting how drained he seemed. "We both need a proper sleep, an uninterrupted sleep."

Harry stood, stretching his back as he did so. "Then let's go back to mine for that cup of tea," he said, reaching out his hand to her.

* * *

Again they sat across from one another at the end of Harry's kitchen table. It was already familiar to Ruth, and she enjoyed how comfortable she felt in Harry's company, and in his house. It's just that she had a need to mention a few things.

"I had lunch with Towers today," she began.

"You did? Why didn't you mention that while we were at the pub?"

"I .. didn't want to spoil the calm, Harry. Towers told me the truth about Albany."

Harry's eyes darted up to meet hers. "He had no right to do that."

"I know. That's what I thought. He said something like now I know that your act of saving me was no longer such a noble gesture."

Harry twisted his lips in a gesture of disgust. "He clearly has no idea how powerful the deterrent factor is with a weapon of that potential, operational or not."

"Perhaps. He's merely a politician, Harry. All he really understands are budgets and polling figures." Harry smiled and fiddled with the handle of his tea cup. "When were you going to tell me?"

"I always meant to, but -" he took a deep breath, "there was always something else more important to discuss."

"Like the Russians."

"Yes. Them."

Ruth waited a full minute before pursuing the subject, if only to take Harry's mind off the reason for his current suspension. "What is it about the Russian contingent in London? Why did you turn down the request for Section D to provide security for the talks?"

Harry glanced quickly at Ruth, and then looked down at his tea. He knew he'd have to tell Ruth the story of the Gavriks one day soon. He just hadn't wanted it to be now. He longed to put the whole sorry saga behind him. He sat back in his chair and sighed heavily. "Putting it succinctly," he said, "I met both Elena and Ilya Gavrik in Germany in the late 1970's, and she and I began an affair. She gave birth to a child which she claimed was mine. I thought I'd successfully turned her, so I planned bringing her and the boy back to London with me, but I left her waiting for me to turn up. It was far too risky, and besides, I was married at the time. I don't wish to see them because I don't want to be revisiting a time in my life when I made a number of decisions of which I am not at all proud. I am no longer the man who did that."

Ruth was not altogether surprised at Harry's revelation. She had thought it would be something like that, but she'd expected there to have been a pistols-at-dawn scenario, rather than a child who'd been conceived as a result of the affair. "Is her son yours?"

"I don't know, Ruth. I don't think he could be. I was careful to always use … protection. It's possible she used her son to manipulate me. Elena was a spy, and a very good one. I hadn't thought about her for years. I don't wish to re-enter that time in my life. History like that needs to stay in the past where it belongs."

Harry sounded weary and drained. It had already been quite a day, and there she was interrogating him over something which had happened over thirty years ago. "Thank you for telling me," she said quietly, avoiding eye contact. "I didn't mean to put pressure on you. I just wanted to know what it was behind your decision to not engage with the Russian delegation. Towers says that the Foreign Secretary is rather unhappy about your decision."

Again Harry sighed wearily, this time running the palm of one hand down over his face. Ruth reached out to grasp that hand between both her own, and he held onto her hand tightly. "I don't mind telling you, Ruth. I'm tired of all this."

"Tired of what exactly?"

"The service, spying, secrets, back stabbing, the politics behind it all. It's nothing more than a game where those who pull the strings remain at a distance. Where once I enjoyed it, reveled in it, I now find it terribly exhausting."

"Perhaps today has been … harder than most, and you've not had work in which to bury yourself, distance yourself."

"I don't think it's that, Ruth. I'm getting on in age, and for a while now I've found my job difficult at times."

"But you do it so well."

"The decisions I'm having to make on almost a daily basis are not black and white."

"But Harry, you don't have to make those decisions alone."

"When John Bateman took you I was on my own. How could I consult anyone else when making that decision?"

Harry took his hand from between Ruth's hands and again passed it down his face. Poor tired Harry. Ruth wanted to curl up with him in his own bed and spend the night, but she'd already decided she had best go home. The next day was likely to be busy for her, and potentially quite difficult. "I'll leave now," she said quietly, forgetting the earlier promise she'd made to stay. "It's best I go."

"You don't have to," Harry said quietly, hopefully.

"I think I should." Ruth had been confronted by the story of Harry and Elena Gavrik, and she needed to put distance between them. She needed to think.

Ruth stood and gathered her bag and her coat, and since she'd parked the pool car in the lane behind the house, she headed through the kitchen to the back door. Harry stood to accompany her. "Ruth .. why is it I get the impression that you don't want to be happy, and that perhaps you're not expecting you can be happy .. especially with me?"

Ruth looked up at him and shook her head, Sometimes Harry said the strangest things. Not want to be happy? Who in their right mind didn't want to be happy?

"Don't come outside," she said quickly, not wanting to address his question. "It's cold, and you'll catch your death. Whatever happened to spring?" She gave a little laugh, and then reached up to kiss him on the mouth. His response was rather cold, as he pursed his lips so that the kiss was as chaste as when one kisses a relative. "What's wrong?" she asked, frowning up at him.

Harry shook his head and opened the back door for her. "Please drive carefully," he said, "and ring me tomorrow, otherwise I'll be ringing you every five minutes while you're meant to be working."

Ruth smiled up at him, and then kissed his cheek, and then she was gone. Harry watched as she ducked through the gate into Bob's back yard, and then he closed the door and sighed. Sometimes he didn't understand Ruth at all. He could only surmise that she had not responded well to what he had told her about his affair with Elena Gavrik. He knew Ruth. She'd rally. All they both needed was a decent night's sleep.


	11. Chapter 11

_**A/N : Thanks to readers, as well as those who have left reviews. This chapter has one or two M-ish bits.**_

* * *

Jeremy Nevill's day usually began at around midday and ended sometime just as dawn announced itself with a wink and a nod from the east. He had always seen himself as a creature of the night, out of step with others of the species. He slept while others worked, and he walked among those who lived in the shadows. It was in the shadows, the nooks and the crevices, where the real stories were hatched; it was there that the interesting people lived out their lives. He'd lived that way for so long that he thought of himself as one of them – the people of the night. Such people refused to live by the rules; they made their own rules, or they ignored the very idea of rules altogether. Mostly he found that he admired such people while making his living from peering into their lives, searching for order and reason where mostly there was none. Some things just were. Some things were so disordered that there was a twisted, gnarled beauty to them, an artistic spattering of struggle, disaster and dysfunction. Jeremy liked to think of himself as an artist - the streets his palette, his words flowing onto the page like paint.

Since Melanie Grant had decided to escape the sanctuary of his flat, which had resulted in her almost getting herself killed, Jeremy had had to alter the habits of his adult life. Since receiving the call telling him about the attack on Melanie he'd been working non-stop throughout the day. Of course, once she was out of theatre he'd visited her in hospital, but she'd been asleep for the whole four hours he'd spent at her bedside, willing her to wake up, to be well. She'd been more to him than a story. He'd grown fond of her, this woman too young to be so broken. He thought of her as a little sister, one who required his brotherly protection. Now, at a half hour to midnight, he was so wiped out that were he to not soon head to bed, he would fall asleep where he sat.

Then his phone had rung. It had been the hospital. Melanie was waking up, and she was speaking. She was saying three words over and over - `talk to Jerry'. It was suggested that should her recovery continue Jerry should be able to speak to her in around 12 hours. Given Melanie's personal history it was suggested he bring with him a female companion - perhaps a police woman, or a member of the security service. The first person who came to mind was Ruth Evershed. Being twenty-three minutes to midnight by the time the call from the hospital ended, he was sure that Ruth would be tucked up in bed asleep. Perhaps she was tucked up with Harry, perhaps not. Either way, it was unlikely she'd appreciate a call from him. He decided that the best thing for him to do would be to head to bed and set his alarm for eight in the morning.

* * *

At ten minutes to midnight Ruth lay awake, unable to sleep. She felt bad about leaving Harry on his own when he had made it clear that he'd wanted her to stay. She'd reacted in the way she reacted towards him far too often, putting as much distance between them in the shortest time possible. She lay on her back trying to find her way out of the confusion which she was aware was largely of her own making. Harry loved her, and what was even better he treated her well. She loved Harry, but that scared her – not all the time, just sometimes, like earlier that evening when he had agreed that she should spend the night with him. Deep inside herself, where she rarely allowed herself to climb down and have a dig around, she was afraid of being with a man about whom she cared so much. It was risky to love someone, especially when that love was deep, already part of her, like it had been carved into her soul before she was born. What if he stopped loving her? What if he found someone else, someone more suitable, someone closer to his own age? After putting so much expectation into a relationship, what if it all fell apart and they ended up hating one another? For around the tenth time that night Ruth rolled over and punched her pillow. She breathed out her irritation.

She already knew what she had to do. She'd known it from the moment she'd walked out of Harry's kitchen just over three hours earlier. She threw back her duvet, got out of bed, pulled on track pants and a thick jumper, socks, shoes and then the coat she'd worn earlier. Then she packed a bag with her toilet things and a change of clothes for the next day. She was ready. All she needed was the keys to the pool car, and she had no idea where she'd left them.

* * *

Harry had also taken some time to fall asleep. In the end he'd gone downstairs to pour himself a generous measure of whisky, which he'd taken back upstairs and sipped while he read another half a dozen pages about how the first mobile cannon had been dragged over the Alps for an invasion of Italy in the fifteenth century. Such a cannon had created fear and destruction wherever it was used. Harry quite liked the idea of cannon fire. One's intention would always be clear; no ambiguity there. He had then closed the book, resting his reading glasses on top of it on his bedside table, and then slid down beneath his duvet. As he'd closed his eyes his thoughts were of marching through the Alps at the head of a battalion of men lusting for blood. He was unaware of another person climbing into his bed and snuggling down beside him. He slept on, dreaming of sleeping under the stars with only an animal skin for warmth.

Around three hours later Harry awoke with a full bladder. He lay under the duvet, eyes still closed, hoping he could fall asleep without having to give in to the need he had to urinate. He rolled on to his back, concentrating all his awareness on his bladder, willing it to hold everything in while he went back to sleep. He became aware of a warmth from beside his right shoulder, and lifting his head he saw Ruth sleeping silently and peacefully in bed next to him. Had she stayed? All he could remember was her sudden departure and his overwhelming feeling of abandonment. "Ruth?" he said hoarsely.

Her eyes fluttered open, taking a few moments to adapt to the darkened room. She smiled into his eyes and rolled over onto her side so that her body rested against him. Full bladder forgotten, he leaned down to kiss her. Her lips were soft, pliable and giving, and for a moment he forgot his need to urinate. He rolled against her and slid one arm around her while the kiss continued. Harry would have been happy to keep kissing her forever, but Ruth pulled away and put her finger against his lips. "You taste like a distillery," she whispered.

"Right," he said, turning to lift the duvet. "I'm also dying for a piss."

"Charming," she said, smiling to herself as he got out of bed, threw on his dressing gown, and headed into the en suite. Ruth rolled onto her back and stretched her body. She suddenly felt very, very good – warm, and comfortable, and loose, and very desired. More immediately, she was also hungry.

Harry took his time in the bathroom. Firstly he urinated, then washed, and lastly cleaned his teeth. Running his fingers over his jaw and chin, he decided that a shave might be necessary. He was aware he was aiming high, but he had to keep his hopes up; she had responded well to his kiss, so he'd best be prepared. Ten minutes passed before Harry made it back to bed, and by that time the bed was empty. He'd made such a racket while washing and shaving that he'd not heard her leave the bedroom. He noticed an overnight bag on the chair in the far corner of the room – an overnight bag which did not belong to him. Hearing the noise of a cupboard door closing downstairs, Harry headed out of his bedroom and down the stairs.

"Ruth," he said, standing in the kitchen doorway watching Ruth buttering two slices of toast. "Why now?" He felt a thud of disappointment in his stomach.

"I'm starving. Aren't you? It was hours ago that we ate. Would you like a slice? I'm only buttering it. Nothing fancy."

Harry nodded, sitting at his usual seat at the table, while Ruth placed one slice of buttered toast on a small plate, and pushed it across the table until it was in front of him. They ate in silence. Harry was only mildly annoyed. The night was not yet over. Anything was possible.

"Why did you come back?" he asked.

"Oh, you know …"

"That's not an answer."

"It's the only one you're getting."

Harry decided that maybe silence was easier than a conversation which made little sense to him.

"You're upset," Ruth said after a couple of minutes, as she brushed crumbs from her fingers. She'd scoffed her piece of buttered toast in record time.

"Not upset ..."

"Disappointed then."

Harry nodded, looking up from his plate and into Ruth's eyes. He was afraid that he sounded desperate, and yet in a way he was. He was desperate that he and Ruth should reach a place where they were partners, in every way there was. He wanted her commitment, her openly declared love, and yes, he wanted her body. It's just that he didn't know how best to convey these thoughts to her without upsetting her. The very last thing he needed was for her to get up and go back to her own home.

"I'm sorry," she said quietly. "I don't quite know why I … do that. You know, running from you. I think I get scared of .."

"Not me, I hope."

"Only a little bit." Ruth smiled at him, and Harry felt his body warming under that smile.

He finished his toast and wiped his hands on a piece of kitchen roll which Ruth had slipped under his plate. "Ruth … I'd like it if we could now go upstairs and .." She was watching him, staring at him really, and he suddenly lost his nerve. How to tell the woman he loved that he really needed to make love to her? He had to be careful how he phrased it – if he ever got around to the phrasing part – for fear Ruth would take his suggestion as a crass request for sex.

Suddenly Ruth got up from her chair and stood beside him. He turned to face her, hoping her move was a good sign. She placed a hand each side of his face, hesitating for a moment before she leaned down to kiss him. The kiss was gentle and careful. Harry decided that if he left it up to her she might well change her mind mid-kiss, so he reached out to pull her closer, standing as he did so. Ruth pulled out of the kiss and looked up at him, a question in her eyes. His only thought was that they needed to crack on before Ruth changed her mind. She smiled and slid her hands inside his dressing gown, and then wrapped them around his middle, and this time her kiss was more an answer than a question. She pushed herself against him, pushing one knee between his legs. This movement of her body against his had him becoming aroused rather quickly, and his mind was beginning to cloud so that his ability for making wise decisions was fast fading as he felt the surge of blood through his body, most of it heading south. Should he suggest they go upstairs, or should he just go with the flow, and allow Ruth to continue taking the lead? It's just that things were progressing too quickly, even for him. Ruth was pushing herself against him, and as exquisite as that was, he was fast losing control. It was when she pulled away from him slightly so that she could run the fingers of one hand over his chest, and then this same hand slid underneath the waistband of his track pants so that she could run her fingers up and down the length of his erection that he called time. His eyes flew open and he drew away from her, reaching down to grasp her hand.

"What's wrong?" she asked, her eyes showing surprise. "I thought you were enjoying this."

"I am. This is new territory for us, Ruth, and I'd rather we go upstairs. Making love is more comfortable in a bed."

"You smell lovely, and you taste even better," she said, before leaning back in to again kiss him. Again he pulled away. The way she was moving against him, and her words .. rather suggestive under the circumstances .. he'd not last long.

"Ruth – we need to slow down until we get to the bedroom. Then it will be -"

"Full steam ahead."

He smiled at her, taking her hand in his and leading her to the doorway. With one hand he flicked off the kitchen light, and then they climbed the stairs together. Once inside his bedroom it was as if time had slowed. There was no longer a desperate need to be getting on with it. Harry lay Ruth on the bed and very slowly removed her clothing, beginning with the dressing gown which was around five sizes too large for her. He kissed her skin as it was exposed by his removing her clothes. They lay beside one another exchanging soft kisses while Ruth lazily pushed his dressing gown from his shoulders, and then lifted his t-shirt and pushed down his track pants with her toes.

Laying together naked was beautiful and arousing and even a little frightening. Harry knew that were they to take too long over the arousal part he may climax too quickly, creating embarrassment for himself and disappointment for Ruth. He need not have worried. As though she could see into his private thoughts, Ruth suggested they couple just prior to Harry suggesting the very same thing. Although their lovemaking was occasionally awkward and out of sync, it was at the same time a glorious and wonderful thing. They had waited so long for this, that neither were prepared to be critical of themselves or of each other. They would do this again. There _would_ be a next time.

Afterwards they lay together, Harry having grabbed the duvet, lifting it to cover them both. "You know there's no turning back from here," he said against her ear.

"What do you mean?"

"This is not to be a one-off, Ruth. This is just the beginning."

"I know that. I wouldn't have been .. interested in anything … meaningless."

"Good," Harry said, rolling onto his back, grasping her hand under the duvet, "because I'm too old for meaningless sex."

"I think I might be also."

They fell asleep, satisfied in body and in mind.

* * *

When Harry awoke he stretched his body under the duvet, remembering what he and Ruth had shared in the early hours, smiling to himself. He felt loose limbed and almost weightless. Turning to her side of the bed he found it empty, but for a note on her pillow, attached to the pillowcase by a plastic clothes peg. Harry grabbed his reading glasses from on top of the book on medieval warfare and put them on. The note was written in Ruth's casual scrawl. _I have gone in to work. I am so far behind with my tasks I'm afraid Erin may suggest I be replaced by a robot, which would be so much more reliable than me. When (if) I take a break I'll call you. I can't stop thinking about last night. R xx_

Harry smiled. He felt happy and contented, and yet he knew he had no right to be. His suspension, as delicate as it was, was brought about by a series of events so horrific that his joy left him nursing guilt. He took off his glasses, placed Ruth's note on the medieval warfare book, and his glasses on top of the note, shuffled down under the duvet, and went back to sleep. He'd noted the time on his bedside clock – 7.17 am – and he didn't care. He'd spent most of his working life existing on a few hours sleep each night. As he saw it he'd earned a few extra hours.

* * *

While Harry slept, the situation which had led to his suspension took a leap and a turn. Just after 9 am Ruth was searching on her desk for a file for Calum, to whom Erin was handing the responsibility for the situation in Brixton. While there her mobile phone rang. It was Jeremy Nevill.

"Isn't this a bit early for you, Jerry?"

"I've found something. Ruth, did you hear me?"

"Yes, but you'll have to tell me more than that."

"Last night the hospital rang to say that Melanie was in the process of waking up, and she can talk. She was asking for me, so this morning – only twenty minutes ago – I went to the room in my flat where she'd stayed, and dug around under her mattress. I don't even know what I was looking for. Anything that I might have missed. I don't exactly do housework, so I carefully combed the room, and taped under the mattress itself was another USB drive. I just assumed it was a copy of the one she'd left in the coffee jar, so I put it in my brief case, intending to check it later." Ruth was hoping that Jerry soon got to the point. "Some .. instinct had me removing the drive from my brief case, and I put it in my laptop."

"And?"

"It's not the same. She must have received it in the post along with the other drive. On it is a twenty minute video of a guy called Sebastian Calder talking to camera. He spilled the whole story. Everything from the names of participants to the names of some of the children, and – you'll never believe this – the names of three social workers who were complicit in arranging for children to take part in this … horror. There's more, but -"

"Who is Sebastian Calder? He'd have to be close to someone somewhere, and is he still alive?"

"I've rung the hospital, and I'm allowed twenty minutes with Melanie at 12.30. I'd like you to come with me."

Ruth hesitated for only a moment. This could be the break which got Harry off the hook. To hell with the Brixton arms loonies. To hell with the Russians. To hell with Erin's need to impress Harry with her efficiency. She needed to accompany Jerry to the hospital.


	12. Chapter 12

"Who is Sebastian Calder?" Ruth asked Jerry once he met her in the foyer of the hospital at 12.20.

"Do you have around two hours to spare?"

"You know I don't."

They were waiting by the lifts, since Melanie's room was on the sixth floor. Jerry stepped forward and leaned all his weight against his thumb as he pushed the Up button, even though he'd already pushed it twice. Then he stepped back close to Ruth and began speaking quickly in a low monotone.

"I really should give you the USB drive for safe keeping. I intend making several copies, but I haven't yet had time." Jerry looked around them, but only two elderly couples were waiting to enter the lifts. Jerry hoped they were hard of hearing.

"Short answer re Sebastian. Public school boy, family well off, began using heroin at age fifteen and hit the streets, working as a rent boy to pay for his habit. He's good looking – _very_ good looking; imagine a young Leonardo DiCaprio, with a twist of a young Hugh Grant." He noticed Ruth's grimace. "You don't like DiCaprio?"

"He's alright I suppose. It's Hugh Grant I can't abide. He's so … foppish."

Jerry suspected that Ruth's response was because Hugh Grant was the antithesis of Harry Pearce, although he kept that thought to himself. "I watched the whole video, and I'm straight, and I don't mind admitting I found him rather … engaging. He was picked up off the streets by Clive Keeling, whom I've already interviewed. Keeling is a slimy upper class twat. He organised the sessions in which the kids were used by politicians and other men in power. He was the chief organiser. Sebastian and Clive formed a relationship, which I suspect was more about convenience than it was about love. Then Clive suggested Sebastian get a job at one of the children's homes, which he did. Early in 1991, when he was 17, he acquired a job as a carer at the children's home where Melanie Grant and some of the other children were living." The lift doors opened, and they entered the lift together, along with one of the couples who had been waiting with them. They rode in silence to the 6th floor, and on leaving the lift Jerry continued, although Ruth had an idea where the story was headed. "So, it was Sebastian who chose the children. He had an eye for the type who would be … suitable – sensitive, compliant, quiet, attractive. There was no place for confident, outspoken, or rebellious children in Clive's outfit. Sebastian first approached them, and then Clive took over, asking them did they want to attend a party with some grown-ups. He'd tell them there would be lots of food, toys for them to take home, you know the kind of thing. Seb's relationship with Clive Keeling broke down in 2004, which is when Sebastian took off to Europe. He only arrived back in London last summer." Jerry took a breath, stopping just before the corridor turned left to Melanie's ward. "He took it upon himself to contact some of the children whose lives he had had such a part in destroying. Stroke of conscience, apparently. Of the ten he tried to contact, only six are still alive, and only Melanie was living a so-called normal life, so he chose her to tell the story."

"But she got scared."

"I believe so. She knows about his connection with Clive, and her fear may be that were she to speak out publicly, Clive would come after her .. although not personally. He has people whom he pays to do his dirty work."

"So .. Melanie knows the identities of all the men?"

"Yeah. She was becoming annoyed with me because as she saw it I was taking too long to authenticate her accusations. When she .. absconded from my place I believe she was headed to the police, but then she got cold feet and rang a couple of sub editors of a few of the tabloid newspapers. I found a list she'd made of their names in the rubbish bin in her room. She spoke to some low life at the Daily Mail online, and he was about to publish when the chief editor told him to hold his horses." Jerry looked around him as though searching for anyone who might be listening in, and then continued speaking. "My intention today is to ask her to identify Hector Percival from a bunch of photographs. I've found a photo of Harry from 1992. You're right. He's fallen apart a bit since then."

"I didn't say he'd fallen apart. I said he'd changed."

"Semantics." Jerry leaned down and spoke close to Ruth's ear. "You know that every time you defend the man, your love for him shines in your eyes."

"I have no idea what you're talking about."

"So, it is true?" Ruth decided she'd not answer him. Cheeky sod. "Right. Let's see what Melanie has to say."

As they walked along the corridor, Ruth took note of the security staff – four of them – at various spots along the corridor leading to Melanie's room, with a uniformed policeman standing just outside the door to her room. "He'll be for appearance's sake only," Ruth whispered as they approached the room.

They were met by the ward sister who gave them strict instructions about how to treat Melanie. "I know why you're here, Mr Nevill. Melanie has intimated what you do for a living. There will be an RN in the room with her at all times. She's not there to listen to you, so don't concern yourself about that. She'll be keeping an eye on the time, as well as on the patient. We don't wish to tire her."

"How is she .. physically?"

The ward sister stood upright and looked around her as if checking for anyone who might be eavesdropping. "Her recovery is nothing short of remarkable," she said, as though `remarkable' was some newly diagnosed contagion. "I don't know how to explain it. I think she knows she has a job to do. Despite the appearance of delicacy, she's incredibly strong .. and resilient."

Inside the room the light was muted, and Melanie looked so small as she rested against her pillows, the head of her bed elevated so that she saw them as soon as they entered the room. She was slightly built – tiny even - and her whole scalp had been shaved, and a wide white bandage was wrapped around her head. Her left arm was wrapped close to her body, and around her eyes were dark bruises, with a particularly large bruise on her left cheek bone.

"Hi Panda," Jerry said, approaching the bed with his hand out. Melanie tried to smile, but clearly it hurt when her face moved, so she reached out with her free hand, allowing Jerry to grasp it. "This is Ruth," he added. "I've known her for around a hundred years. We were at uni together. She now works in security, so if anyone tries anything funny, she can knee them in the nuts."

Again Melanie tried to smile. Ruth found her to be rather serene, and very brave. "Hello, Melanie. I'm just here to ensure Jerry behaves himself and doesn't bore you with his stand-up routine."

"Pleased to meet you," Melanie said quietly.

"Can I sit here?" Jerry said, his hand on the chair beside her bed. Melanie nodded slowly so as to not hurt herself. "I've been told I have to be quick, so I'll get to the point." He drew a folder from inside his battered brief case, sliding from it a number of photographs, which he turned face down on the bed. " I have some photographs here which I want you to look at. They are all of men. Some of these men you may know from the early 1990's. Some of them you won't have met."

"You're testing me?" Melanie's voice was raspy, her eyes wide. Ruth thought she looked no older than fifteen or sixteen.

"I have to. It's not meant to be a trick or a trap. It's just so that we get this right. I want to catch these people, and I want them to do time in gaol, but we have to catch the right ones. Okay?"

"Okay." Melanie turned her head slightly to smile at Ruth. Ruth thought that aside from her obvious injuries, Melanie seemed so normal. "You'll stay?" she asked Ruth. Ruth nodded. She stood the other side of the bed, so that she and Jerry flanked the small woman in the bed.

"We have to be quick and quiet or Nurse Ratched out there will kick us out. I also have to record us," he added, placing his phone on the bed between them, and turning on the audio recorder. "That's just so I have a record of this conversation. I'll ask Ruth to hold your hand, and if you feel like shouting or screaming, just squeeze Ruth's hand instead. Can you do that?" Melanie nodded, and very carefully reached out towards Ruth, who took her hand. "First picture. Do you know this man, and if so, what name do you know him by?"

"Yes. That's Clive Keeling. He was the first man to .. tell me about the .. parties."

"Where did you first meet him?"

"At the home. He was introduced to me by Alan, one of the social workers."

"Do you remember Alan's other name?"

"No. Sorry."

"Never mind. You're doing very well. Next."

Melanie looked at the photograph for several seconds before answering. "We called him George, or Georgie. Some of the other called him Lord George. I believe he was a real Lord … or so he told me."

Jerry nodded, taking his time over identifying the man. "That is Lord George Prentice. He was an important member of the government at the time." Melanie nodded, clearly unimpressed by the man's position. "Next one?" Suddenly Melanie's face changed. Her eyes widened and her grip on Ruth's hand tightened. She took her eyes from the image, turning to Ruth, her eyes panicked. "What name did you know him by, Melanie?"

The young woman licked her lips, slowly turned back to Jerry, and then answered. "He was called Harry. Harry Pearce."

"His real name was Hector Percival, but he preferred the name Harry."

Melanie's grip on Ruth's hand loosened, and she appeared to be remembering something. "It wasn't Pearce. It was Percy. Some people called him Percy, and some called him Harry. It was Seb who always referred to him as Harry _Percy_ , not Pearce. There .. there was a girl in the home when I was there whose name was Gemma Pearce. I always wanted to be Gemma, because she was never chosen to go to the … parties." She sighed, looking at Ruth and then at Jerry. "I must have confused the two."

"You were only eight," Ruth murmured gently.

"I can remember telling Gemma about Harry … Harry Percy. I didn't tell her what he did to me, just that he gave me sweets and bought me lovely clothes. I'd share the sweets with Gemma, telling her his name was Harry Pearce, and that he was probably her father." Melanie sighed and closed her eyes for an moment. "I'd make up stories to tell Gemma about this man, so she'd not feel left out." She sighed slowly.

Ruth squeezed Melanie's hand in a show of support as Jerry showed the next photograph, placing the others face down on the bed. "Do you know this man?"

"Yes. That's Seb. I was fond of him. He was very kind to me. He was kind to us all. He never … did what the others did. His real name was Sebastian. He and Clive used to argue a lot."

Jerry flicked up the next image. "This is Seb today, Melanie. Do you think he was the one who sent you the files?" Melanie nodded, gazing for some time at the photograph, eventually reaching out to touch the image of the face of someone who had demonstrated kindness. "And this man?" Jerry turned over the next image for her to see, keeping a close eye in her face.

Again Melanie stared at the photograph for a long time, her brow wrinkling in concentration. "No .. I've never met him. Who is he?"

"This man's name is Harry Pearce. This photograph was taken in 1992. He works with Ruth here. Their job is to keep us safe."

"Oh, so he's MI5."

"Yes." Jerry glanced across at Ruth to see that she had visibly relaxed. Melanie's words, `I've never met him,' meant that Harry was off the hook.

Jerry showed Melanie five more photographs. Two were men whom she'd met in 1992 and 1993, and three were of men she'd never met. They were his control photographs. He knew she wouldn't have met them, as they were three men from his own family – his father, his maternal grandfather, and one of his uncles. Her clear answers meant that her word was reliable. As he packed the photographs back in his brief case, he asked her one more question.

"Do you know who it was attacked you? When the police interview you this will be their first question. Consider this a practice run."

"I was attacked from behind, and a bag put over my head. I saw no-one, and no-one spoke to me, but I could hear them breathing."

"Them?"

"It felt like there were two of them."

"Have you any idea who would want to harm you?"

"There is a long list of people who know that it was me who spoke to the press, but I think the person with the most to lose is Clive. He's a dangerous man. He has a .. vicious streak."

"Thank you, Mel. I think you should rest now."

Jerry had his story, which he was now free to publish – firstly on his own blog, and then an edited version for the newspapers, but first he planned to visit his contact in the Metropolitan Police. Ruth watched him as he slowly and deliberately closed his brief case, and then looked across the bed to her, smiled a tired smile, and then nodded. They were ready to go. The whole interview had taken only fourteen minutes.


	13. Chapter 13

_**A/N : Thank you to those who are reading, following, and especially to those who have left reviews. Whilst the Melanie storyline is not yet tied up, another storyline emerged as I was writing this, and I just had to follow it.**_

* * *

Same day - Monday afternoon:

Once Ruth had returned to the Grid she took her phone to the ladies' toilets, entered a cubicle and closed the door behind her. She sat on the closed seat, woke up her phone, scrolled to Contacts and pressed Harry's name. The phone rang several times before he answered.

"I thought you'd skipped the country, Ruth," he said, his voice light-hearted.

"You know I wouldn't do that."

Harry sighed into the phone. He'd been worried because she hadn't called, but now she had, so that made everything right again. He really needed to get back to work. He was losing perspective, relying too much on a communication from Ruth to keep his world upright. He just hoped she hadn't forgotten about what had happened at around 4 o'clock that morning.

"I've been to the hospital with Jerry while he interviewed Melanie Grant. Harry .. she didn't recognise you from the photo Jerry showed her. You're off the hook."

"I was only ever on the hook by accident, Ruth," he said, sounding mildly irritated.

"Jerry will have his article – complete with images – on his website by 4 o'clock, and he'll send edited versions to some of the newspapers, and to his contact at the BBC. He has an appointment with a detective from the Met, one who has dealt with cases such as this in the past. If things go according to plan, you can be back at work by tomorrow."

Ruth heard Harry exhale slowly. "I hope so," he said quietly. "I can't do a lot until I receive the word from Towers. How did the girl seem to you? Was she a reliable witness?"

"I believe so. She gave definite answers, and that's always a good sign."

"What happens to her when she leaves hospital? She'll require security."

"Jerry says he has the perfect place for her. I'll tell you more when next I see you."

"And when will that be?"

"I don't know." Ruth lowered her voice, although she was certain no-one had followed her to the ladies' loo. "Calum has asked me to help him with the … Russian thing."

"The _Russian_ _thing_? Ruth, please tell me you're not getting involved."

"I'm hardly involved, but I did deliver the report to Erin in which I stated that there had been a face to face meeting between Sasha Gavrik and Lester Ross of Arms For Peace."

Ruth could feel Harry's tension from her end of the phone conversation. "If that is what has happened -"

"It is. The meeting was witnessed by Jim Byfield from Six, and he rang Dimitri, who then told Calum. He also has a photograph of the meeting, but I have yet to see it."

"Last I heard he was in Moscow."

"Dimitri?"

"No. Jim Byfield."

"He's been tailing Sasha Gavrik for the past fortnight." Ruth took a deep breath. "Harry .. you have to trust me. Look, I have to go. I'm meant to be conferring with Calum … about the Russian visit, and what it might all be about. Erin is out of the office for most of the day."

"There's an all-day JIC meeting."

"Yes, which I'm sure you're simply devastated about missing." Ruth was relieved to hear Harry's throaty chuckle. "Calum and I need to work out what to do .."

"About the Russians."

"In a way, but we have to figure out what to do without Erin .. interfering. She doesn't want us to -"

"- upset the Russian apple cart."

"Exactly."

"Then I won't keep you, Ruth." He hesitated while he thought of how to ask her when he'd see her again. He should have known she'd be able to read his thoughts.

"I'd like to spend at least part of this evening with you," Ruth said quietly, "if you want to, that is."

 _If he wanted to?_ "I'd like that. I'd like that a lot. I'll be here … waiting for your call. I can even rustle up something for us to eat .. for dinner."

"I can't make any promises. It all depends on this Russian .."

"- _thing_. I'll .. wait until I hear from you again."

"You should take a walk outside, Harry."

"It's raining."

"How convenient."

"So I'll see you tonight?"

"I'll do everything in my power to get there before midnight."

"That's good. Ruth?"

"Yes?" Ruth knew she'd soon be missed, so she'd best get back to the Grid.

"Do you … regret what happened .. between us .. this morning?"

"Of course not. What made you say that?"

"You haven't mentioned it."

"How does one talk about something like that on the phone?"

Ruth heard Harry sigh heavily, and then an uncomfortable silence fell between them. "We're not a terribly … romantic couple, are we?" he said.

This time it was Ruth who was stuck for a reply. There she was, sitting in a cubicle in the ladies loos in Thames House. It was hardly the ideal venue for a romantic conversation with her lover. "I .. suppose we're not, but it doesn't mean that we're .."

"No. It doesn't."

They each understood what had not been said. _Just because we're not romantic doesn't mean that there is not a deep well of love between us._

Suddenly there was a knock on the outside door to the toilets. "Ruth," came Calum's voice through the door. "You haven't fallen in, I hope. I haven't a plunger big enough to get you out."

"I'll be out in a minute," she called out to Calum. "I have to go," she said quietly into the phone. "I'll call you later."

Harry said a quick goodbye, making a mental note to send Calum up north when next an operative was required in Leeds or Manchester, or better still, Newcastle.

* * *

Dimitri hadn't heard a word from Ruth, so given there hadn't been any excitement in days, he decided it was time to put his plan into action. He checked the ID in his top pocket, to assure himself that the legend in his head was the same as the one on his ID card. He had several options available. He could break into the house through the partially open window at the back, something he'd noticed during his recce earlier in the day. The worst thing which could happen would be that the occupant of the smart town house would have the police on speed dial, or even worse, that he would have a firearm close by. Dimitri decided that the best approach would be to knock on the front door.

"Yes," said the man who answered the door, his voice barely hiding his irritation. Dimitri felt he was looking at how Harry Pearce may look in around twenty years, especially if he no longer looked after himself. Sir Hector Percival was slim, but with a rotund belly. He was around Dimitri's own height, with only a little white hair on his head, and he was dressed in beige slacks, a striped shirt with the collar open, brown brogues, all topped off with a white apron which bore the message: _I'm a Big Boy_ , in large black letters across the area over his crotch. _Sleaze_ , thought Dimitri, fuming at the memory of what Ruth had told him about this man. In his hand Percival held a wooden spoon, so Dimitri knew he had to act quickly. He stepped up to stand next to Sir Hector, very gradually easing himself over the threshold, standing a little too close to the older man. "You're not here to read the gas meter, are you?" His voice was suddenly rather weak, and Dimitri knew he had him.

Dimitri had done his homework. Sir Hector's gas meter was in the utilities room, and it could only be read by gaining entry to the property, and there was a reading due the next day. "No, I'm not. I'm here on behalf of an old friend of yours." Dimitri grabbed his ID and flashed it in front of the man. "My name is Adam Harris. I work for Jackson and Harris Legal, the firm representing Melanie Grant."

Dimitri expected an outraged, or at the very least an angry response. Sir Hector dropped his wooden spoon so that it clattered on the polished wooden floor, echoing around the vast space of the entry hall. His shoulders slumped and his former expression of irritation became one of complete defeat. This was going to be easier than expected. Perhaps broken bones would not be necessary.

* * *

Ruth was in the passenger seat while Calum drove. It was a little after 4.30, and so she expected that Jerry would have already uploaded his story. She had not had time to check. Truth be told she was not certain of the wisdom of what they were doing, especially since the only members of the Grid with knowledge of what they were about to do were Tariq, who had organised their comms, and Jarrod, a junior officer who was already at the meeting place, his position hidden from view.

"I'm not sure this is wise," she said quietly as Calum accelerated away from a set of traffic lights.

"Neither am I, but it has to be better than taking on Gavrik Junior. He's FSB."

"But she's older and wiser. I've heard she knows every trick in the book."

"Well, so do you, Ruth, even if you haven't had too many opportunities for trying out said tricks."

When making the appointment Ruth had used her real name. She could find no reason for using a legend. She wanted straight answers, although she was unsure that this was the most efficient way of going about it. "Drop me off here," she said as they reached the eastern gate to the park, "and stay out of sight."

"Yes, Mum."

"And don't call me Mum." Despite her tone of voice, Ruth smiled across the car into Calum's eyes.

"I'm just worried what Harry will say when he finds out," Calum said, staring ahead through the windscreen, while Ruth checked that her button microphone on the front of her dress was not covered by her jacket. They hadn't had time to set up full audio, so Tariq, Calum and Jarrod each had microphones and earpieces, while it was considered safer were Ruth to not have an earpiece. Hopefully that would be enough. Hopefully the meeting would be uneventful.

"Why are you worried about what Harry thinks about this?" she said without thinking.

"Because .. you know why." She did, of course, but she was not prepared to acknowledge that to Calum. "Three minutes, Ruth. You'd best make tracks." Ruth gave Calum a weak smile as she left the car, her phone in her pocket being her only communication with him should she need it. "Break a leg," Calum said, smiling his encouragement before he once more put the car in gear and crawled slowly towards a clump of bushes further along the lane.

Ruth was on her own, and she was afraid. As she walked through the gate and along the path towards the lake, she thought of Harry. What would he say were he to know what she was planning? No doubt he'd be furious with her. After all, it was less that two months since Lucas North had left her on an anaesthetic drip, and she had lost consciousness, certain she was about to die. The first voice she'd heard on waking had been Harry's, and even in her groggy state she had detected the tightness of fear in his voice. She had no wish to be putting him through that again, especially not now. She wanted to stop what she feared was about to happen when the arms group had set themselves up, and most of all, she wanted to make Harry proud of her. Attending a meeting with a foreign agent without proper backup was unwise, but Ruth felt the need to prove a point.

Ruth had only seen pictures of Elena Gavrik, and they had not done her justice. The woman who sat on the bench seat beside the large yew tree was striking. Her back was ramrod straight as she stared ahead of her across the lake, her hands folded in her lap. When she turned her face to watch her approach, Ruth almost walked straight past. The woman smiled her way, but her eyes were like the Arctic. She'd have to be careful with this one.

"Ms Evershed, I believe," she said, her mouth curved in a half smile.

"Mrs Gavrik," Ruth replied as she sat beside the Russian, choosing to sit on Elena's right side, and turning in such a way that she had a clear view of the path along which she'd approached.

Despite her plan to get straight to the point, Ruth was immediately overcome by a wave of jealousy towards this woman. Elena Gavrik had once been intimate with Harry, although whether they had actually loved one another was something she may never discover. Ruth smiled briefly and then quickly looked around her. People ambled along the path towards them – couples, women with babies in slings and toddlers in buggies, a group of teenage girls in school uniform, huddling over their phones, and then across the small lake she noticed a lone man sitting on a bench, a newspaper open in front of him. To her left, in the direction from which she'd come, a young couple were standing close to one another, he with his hand resting on her hip while they spoke quietly, heads bent towards one another. It was possible that any of the people she could see could well be Elena Gavrik's minders.

"It would be foolish of me to have come here alone," Elena said quietly, her eyes having watched every movement of Ruth's.

"Of course. As I said on the phone, I wanted to speak to you .. away from .. everyone else."

"You mean away from my husband and son."

"Yes." Ruth's eyes darted up to meet the older woman's eyes. Such a cold fish, in such a strikingly beautiful body – perfect spy material. Elena Gavrik must have been a very valued honey trap in her day.

"Why did Harry not come himself?"

Ruth looked away for a moment. "He is .. not free to."

"So this scandal has meant he is suspended?"

Of course she'd know all about the scandal, and she'd not be much of a spy had she not known about Harry's suspension. Ruth nodded. "I am here to lay my cards on the table," Ruth said, wanting to divert the conversation from the subject of Harry. Chances were that if she knew Harry had been suspended she also knew that Ruth had stayed overnight with him, and that potentially made her vulnerable. "I know that … your son is involved with a group in the UK who are importing parts for automatic weapons into this country."

The older woman's eyes flashed. "My son would never do anything so foolish, Ruth. I can call you Ruth, can't I?"

"If you like .. Mrs Gavrik. He has been seen conferring with the leader of Arms For Peace."

"My son is a spy. He is not a gun runner. Such an activity is … beneath him."

"This suggests otherwise," Ruth said, reaching into her bag and then proffering a black and white photograph taken through the window of a coffee shop, inside which could clearly be seen that Sasha Gavrik was sharing a table with Lester Ross, who along with his younger brother, Ian, was one of the more active members of Arms For Peace.

"Well, he's still young. Perhaps he's learning all he can about how things work in this country."

Ruth drew back the photograph and again slid it into her bag. "I am asking you - as his mother - to beg him to stop. This .. activity of his will only damage the talks, perhaps even stop them altogether."

"You think I have influence over Sasha?"

"I'm sure you do. If not you, then who?"

"His father is strict, and Sasha does as his father tells him."

There was no way Ruth was about to take on Ilya Gavrik. The man had an even more frightening reputation than his wife. With one last fond thought of Harry, Ruth bowled ahead. "All I can tell you is that if police Special Branch find evidence of Russian weaponry in any of the properties they are about to raid, the strategic talks are off, and your son will be detained."

"You can't do that," Elena said, her controlled expression breaking for just an instant. _Gotcha_ , thought Ruth, hoping that in this instance her own facial control was better than Elena's.

Suddenly Ruth heard a whip through the air, followed closely by another. At the same time as she felt a dull pain in her upper arm, something warm and wet splashed her face.


	14. Chapter 14

**_A/N : Bad language alert._**

* * *

Ruth immediately went into survival mode, ducking her head as she slid off the bench and onto the grass, where she curled into a ball. She had barely been aware of Elena, her body having arched against the back of the bench as the bullet which had passed through Ruth's arm sank into her flesh. She heard another whip as a bullet cut through the air, and then only silence. She listened for any sound from Elena, and there was none. Ruth experienced an uncomfortable moment when she suspected she may have in some way contributed to the woman's death. Surely it was Elena who was the target. Then it started - people shouting, some calling to children – `Hugo, Sophie, come here,' at the same time as footsteps clipped along the path towards her. Time stretched. She lay on the ground for perhaps twenty seconds, but each second was like a minute.

"Ruth, are you alright?" She only lifted her head when she heard Calum's voice. "Jesus, were you shot?"

Ruth looked down at her body. Apart from spatters of blood down her front she looked fine. "I'm not sure," she said vaguely.

"Stay where you are, Ruth. Stay where you are." Amid the cries and shouts and questioning from people around them, Calum's voice was calm, and Ruth held on to that. Once he'd assessed the situation, he turned back to her, and she focused on his face as he bent down to help her up. He grasped her left forearm to assist her to her feet, and she let out a yowl of pain. That was when he kneeled beside her, and he noticed a hole in the fabric of her jacket. "I think you took a bullet, Ruth. Are you all right?"

Despite Calum's apparent calm he was not sure that they were safe, and he had little idea who had fired the shots. "Jarrod, do you have the identity of the shooter? If not, find him. The Gavrik woman is badly injured, but appears to be breathing. I can drive Ruth to hospital, but the other woman requires an ambulance. Tariq, I expect you to have that sorted."

Having helped Ruth to her feet, he ignored Elena. He had nothing against her personally, but he was in no doubt that Ruth was his priority. He drew them both towards the yew tree, sheltering on the side away from the direction of the shots. He then removed his scarf from the pocket of his jacket and tied it rather clumsily around Ruth's upper arm, where blood was seeping from the wound. Noticing how pale Ruth's face had become, Calum held her against him, gently tucking her arm between them, which served to hold the scarf in place as well as – hopefully – keeping her warm. Suddenly a figure appeared beside them, and Calum looked up, wishing he'd brought a firearm with him, anything to scare off those wishing to gawp. An attractive young couple stood only a yard or so away.

"My name is Andrew Lang, and I'm a medical student at St Thomas' Hospital," the young man said. "A friend of mine is attending to the other woman." He turned to acknowledge the girl with him. "This is Kirsty, my girlfriend. She's a nurse. Would it be all right if I took a look at your ..?"

"My colleague. This is Ruth, and I'm Calum. Did you see who it was fired the shots?" Calum knew that he should have identified himself as one of his legends, but when under stress, the truth was easier, and less likely to lead to misunderstanding.

"Kirsty saw something. Kirsty? You were trying to direct my attention to that guy when it all kicked off."

Kirsty was short, pretty and blond, and had Andrew not been in the picture, and had Ruth not been in need of medical attention, Calum might have turned his charm towards her. Apart from her being at least ten to twelve years his junior, Kirsty was his type. "I saw this man – beside a tree on the western side of the lake -" Kirsty pointed in the general direction of the tree, hidden to them by the massive trunk of the yew tree underneath which they were sheltering. Andrew stepped closer to Ruth and giving Calum direct eye contact, he very carefully untied Calum's scarf, allowing him to examine Ruth's wound more closely. "He was really badly dressed," Kirsty continued, while Calum listened carefully, at the same time as he was keeping an eye on what Andrew was doing. "He was around six feet tall, thin build, short brown hair, 30 to 40, grey suit which didn't fit him terribly well, which was what first drew my attention to him. He had Slavic features, so I'd say he was Polish, or Ukranian, or maybe Russian. I didn't hear him speak. I just saw him lift a pistol - it had a long barrel with a silencer attached - and then he fired." Responding to Calum's unspoken question, Kirsty continued. "Working in an inner city hospital, I see people from all over the world, but especially from Europe. One soon becomes skilled at identifying ethnic groups."

Andrew had finished his examination of Ruth, and he retied Calum's scarf around her upper arm, instructing Ruth to hold her arm against her body. He then turned to Calum, but spoke loudly enough for Ruth to hear. "Your colleague has a through and through bullet wound. The bullet went straight through her arm, and it appears to not have hit an artery, nor has it damaged bone. All the same there is quite a bit of blood loss, and there's a risk of infection, so she'll need medical attention rather soon. Do you have a car?"

"I'm parked just around the corner," Calum said, just as an ambulance careered along the walking path towards them. "Let's get out of here," he said, gently drawing Ruth close to his side with an arm around her shoulder as he headed towards the entrance to the park. "You two can come with us," he added, glancing at Andrew and Kirsty. "Ruth will need someone to look after her while I drive." They quickly skirted around the bench where Elena Gavrik now lay sprawled, several people attending to her. Calum saw no reason to linger.

From the time of the shooting Ruth had spoken only a handful of words. She felt numb, both physically and emotionally, and all she wanted was to see Harry.

* * *

Calum closed his phone and then looked up, rolling his eyes at Kirsty, who was staying with him until her shift was due to begin at six o'clock. "That was my boss," he said, "and the woman – Ruth - is rather important to him, so he was -"

"I could hear him shouting at you from here," she said, smiling up at him in sympathy. "He sounded rather pissed off."

"He's alright, really, except when something bad happens to Ruth."

"Is she his wife … girlfriend?"

"Fuck knows. No-one's game enough to ask those kinds of questions, so if he arrives before your shift begins, feel free to pop that question to him. He's hardly likely to sack you for impertinence."

Kirsty smiled widely into Calum's eyes, and not for the first time, he wished some non-fatal event would remove Andrew Lang from her life.

By the time Harry arrived at the hospital Kirsty had had to leave to begin her shift, and Calum was sitting alone in the corridor. "Where's Ruth?" Harry said, standing in front of Calum, who could see that Harry was more frightened than angry.

"She's in theatre. They have to check that there are no bullet fragments left behind in her arm."

"Which arm?"

"The left one. That'll slow her down for the time being. She'll have to type with the fingers of one hand. The Russian woman will be in theatre for a few hours. She has three bullet wounds, one of which was to her abdomen. I suspect the gunman was warning her. These guys are meant to be crack shots. Had he wanted to kill her, a bullet to the head and one to the heart should have been enough."

"Will she live?"

"Elena Gavrik?"

"Yes. I know Ruth will live."

Harry's voice was snappy, conveying his impatience. Had it not been, Calum would have been worried. "She should, but she may have … permanent injuries. She's in theatre on the fifth floor."

Harry sighed, wiped his hand across his forehead in a gesture of weariness, and sat down, leaving one seat between he and Calum. They sat in silence for some minutes before Harry spoke quietly. "What was she doing there, Calum?"

Calum shifted uncomfortably in his seat, partly from physical discomfort, and partly from the discomfort of having to explain Ruth's and his actions. "It's a long story," he began.

"I have all day."

Harry's voice betrayed his weariness, and suddenly Calum was able to view him simply as a man worried about the woman he loved. He was able to relate to that. "Erin refused to allow us to follow up the Russian connection to this shady arms group in Brixton, and Ruth was sure the connection was solid, especially once that guy from Six took a photo of Sasha Gavrik meeting Lester Ross. You know about Ruth's analysis. It's as tight as a nun's ..." Calum stopped mid sentence, realising that he wasn't in a bar, and Harry was hardly one of the lads.

"So you took it upon yourselves to act independently of your Section Chief's wishes."

"Yeah. It sounds rather bad when you say it like that."

Harry sighed heavily. "And I suppose that the meeting with Elena Gavrik was Ruth's idea."

"Well … I did nothing to stop her. I thought her plan was preferable to doing nothing, and then hoping the strategic talks go ahead without a hitch."

"So .. why do you think we have Section Chiefs and Section Heads – to sit in on meetings and give orders which are then routinely ignored?" Strangely, Harry's voice was calm.

"Of course not, but when a Section Chief makes a poor decision, I reserve the right to overrule her in favour of the opinion of the senior analyst, a person with years more wisdom and experience."

Harry sighed again and sat back in his chair, resting the back of his head on the wall behind him. He knew Ruth would recover fully from her injury, so he wasn't so much worried about her physical health as about any enquiry which may result from the day's events. "Will you back her up?" Harry asked.

"Always, Harry. I haven't known her long, but I'd back Ruth's decision any time over Erin's, and maybe even over your own." Calum took a quick look at Harry, but he was resting his head against the wall, his eyes closed. "As I see it, Ruth is the clearest thinker of anyone in the section."

"I know," Harry said quietly. "That's why I'm not giving you a bollocking for suggesting Ruth's decision making is more reliable than my own. Who do you think it is I go to when I'm stuck for a way out of a difficult situation?"

Calum had never heard Harry talk like this. He'd only known Harry for a couple of weeks, but he'd observed him closely and listened to all the stories Dimitri and Tariq had told about him. He'd expected Harry Pearce to resemble a walrus – grumpy, aggressive, immovable, and sporting a handlebar moustache. Harry could be difficult, but here he was showing a gentler, more human side. For all Calum knew, the love of a unique and clever woman may have mellowed this man. Calum wouldn't know; he'd only ever fallen in lust, love having so far eluded him. He looked at the older man beside him, again with eyes closed and head resting against the cold wall, and he had to admit to himself that, despite the man's many foibles, and the situation he was currently in, he envied Harry. How secure must Harry feel knowing that Ruth would be there for him, loving him through the worst of his days, and forgiving him for the most petulant of his behaviour. So far in his thirty-seven years Calum had not managed to find a woman like that, but he was not about to give up the search.

"I never believed it, you know," Calum said.

Harry sat up, opened his eyes, and looked at Calum with wrinkled brow. "Never believed what?"

"The accusations .. against you. The abuse stuff."

"Well, I'll sleep better for knowing that."

Calum was saved from further cutting remarks by the ringtone of Harry's phone. Harry dug into his pocket to retrieve it and then answer. "Yes?" he barked.

Calum breathed more easily as Harry stood and quickly walked to the family lounge just off the corridor, where he was freer to speak to his caller. Calum listened to the low rumble of Harry's voice as he spoke to his caller. Then, apart from the usual hospital sounds – rattling trolleys, the ding of the bell when the lift stopped at that floor, the hum of conversation from the nurse's station, the light clicking of fingernails tapping keys on a keyboard, the squeaking of rubber-soled shoes on the highly polished linoleum floors – Calum heard nothing from the visitors' lounge. He looked up just in time to see Harry poke his head around the doorway from the lounge.

"You might want to see this," Harry said. Calum lifted himself from the chair and headed towards Harry. As he reached the room, a small room with several upholstered chairs, two sofas, and a low table in the centre on which were scattered magazines and children's picture books, Harry stepped back to allow him inside. "That was the Home Secretary on the phone. I'm expected back at work tomorrow, and that is the reason."

Calum followed the direction of Harry's gaze to a large TV screen on the wall above the doorway. The sound was muted, but the banners running across the bottom of the screen explained everything. _Former Cabinet Ministers arrested_ , the banner said, and on the screen was the image of an elderly man being led from the front door of a large house to a police car.

Calum watched the changing images for a minute or so before he turned to Harry. "That _is_ good news. Things can get back to normal now, can't they?" He'd no sooner spoken than he realised that for Harry nothing would be normal until Ruth was well enough to be back at work. "Once Ruth's back, of course."

"Of course," Harry said, a rare smile softening his face.


	15. Chapter 15

Soon after they'd both seen the TV news, Harry sent Calum home. There was little point in him hanging around just to keep Harry company.

"I expect your report on my desk before lunchtime," Harry said.

"No problem … boss," Calum said, grinning at Harry. "Look after Ruth."

Harry said nothing in reply, but Calum was sure he detected a slight nod of his head. Harry watched him until he entered the lift, and then headed back to the visitors' lounge to make another phone call. This one would not be easy, but it was definitely his job to be making it. The Home Secretary had expressed his displeasure about the events of the afternoon, and had made it clear that it was now Harry's job to sort out the resultant mess.

"We can't have spies running all over London against the wishes of their superiors, Harry," Towers had said.

"It appears to me that Calum and Ruth had good reason to being doing what they did, Home Secretary. Mrs Gavrik was there voluntarily, and it was not my agents who shot her."

"Do you have any idea who it was shot Mrs Gavrik?"

"I … suspect a rogue arm of the FSB – within the FSB, but occasionally taking charge of situations to suit their own ends. I believe that it was thought that Elena Gavrik was not to be trusted."

"But her son is FSB."

"Yes, and as far as I know, he toes the line." Harry took a breath to calm himself. He didn't especially want to give everything he knew away to the Home Secretary. "I have to remind you that one of our own - Ruth Evershed -"

"Yes, I know. The poor woman was shot. How is she, by the way?"

"She's still in theatre, but I'm assured she'll fully recover. She and Calum Reed should not be chastised for their actions."

"You _support_ what they did?"

"After the fact, yes I do."

"Well, I expect you to sort it out. You're good at that sort of thing. I've been on the phone to Erin Watts and she knew nothing about it until I told her. What sort of outfit are you running, Harry?"

Harry had wanted to point out that while on suspension he was unable to run any outfit, but he'd held in his irritation in favour of silence. Next he had to placate Erin, a task to which he was not looking forward.

* * *

Less than an hour later Harry was in Ruth's hospital room waiting for her to wake.

"She'll be right as rain," her surgeon had assured Harry with a smile. Harry thought he barely looked old enough to have left school, let alone to be trusted with a very sharp knife while his patient was unconscious. "She should have her peepers open in around an hour."

Harry tried to listen while the surgeon told him about the operation and the likely recovery time for Ruth, but he barely heard a thing, so keen was he to see her. "You might have to tell me that all over again," he said apologetically. "Right now I really need to see her."

So there he was, sitting beside Ruth's hospital bed, watching her while she breathed steadily. Her skin was pale, and apart from her left arm being heavily bandaged and bound to her chest, she appeared to be sleeping. Once he felt assured that she had been looked after properly, and was not about to expire on him, Harry sat back in his chair, his eyes on Ruth, while he reviewed his phone call to Erin. As much as he'd dreaded speaking to her, it had been rather easy. Erin was, among other things, a cool customer. She did not explode when things didn't go according to plan. She took everything at face value and that was that. She was pragmatic to the end.

"I'm back on deck tomorrow," Harry had said once he'd identified himself.

"That's good, Harry. I look forward to it. It's been a stressful few days without you here."

To Harry's ears Erin had sounded about as stressed as she did when she uttered an icy `good morning' each morning. "Towers told me he'd filled you in on the day's events."

"He has. I can't say that I'm happy about what Calum and Ruth took upon themselves to do, but I have at least learned something from it." Harry waited, deciding that prudence was, in this case, the wisest policy. "On reflection, I believe that I should have listened to Ruth, and not held on to what the Home Secretary had told me about the Russian talks being more important than anything else on the horizon."

"You had a difficult call to make, Erin."

"I did, but I know what you would have done." Harry was momentarily shocked by her direct comment. Of course, he would have listened to Ruth, and given her the okay to do what she felt was right – for the greater good of the population. But he was not a politician, and neither was Ruth. Erin was more prone to bowing to political will and pressure. It was the chief difference between them as section heads. "You would have listened to Ruth."

"She and I know one another well, Erin. We've worked together for a long time and we each trust the judgement of the other. While the Gavrik woman's shooting is .. regrettable, I believe it had nothing to do with us."

"You'll have to explain that, Harry."

"I believe that whoever it was shot Elena Gavrik was tailing her, hoping for an opportunity to either kill her, or in the case of what happened today, to warn her that they were on to her."

"So she'll live?"

"I suspect so, although her recovery will be long and difficult."

"The Home Secretary is not at all pleased," Erin said crisply.

"I would have thought an occasional state of displeasure goes with his job," Harry countered, equally as crisply.

Harry was brought out of his reverie by a slight movement on the bed beside him. Then he heard his name. He stood and leaned over the bed. Ruth was awake, her aquamarine eyes open, clearly a little dazed, but gazing at him. He could only smile into those eyes.

* * *

Next morning Harry arrived on the Grid just before eight o'clock. All was quiet, and everyone appeared to be busy. The first thing he did was to call Erin into his office.

"How is Ruth?" Erin said, even before she'd sat down.

Harry was a little taken aback, especially since pastoral care was not one of Erin's key skills. "She's well, under the circumstances. One of the reasons I've called you in here is to let you know that I'll be leaving on the dot of 5 o'clock this afternoon. I'm picking up Ruth from hospital and taking her home."

"To her home? She'll be alone. Shouldn't she at least have company?"

"We … haven't yet decided. I agree with you that she'll need someone with her, or at least close by should she need them. Her doctor insists she not return to work until next Monday, but even then she'll need a medical all clear before that can happen."

"She'll need something to keep her mind occupied, otherwise she'll ..."

"- be crawling up the walls, yes," Harry finished.

"She may not be safe in her flat on her own, Harry. We're still not sure what was behind the shooting."

"Which is one of the chief reasons I've called you in here, Erin. Has their been a lead on the shooter?"

Erin sat up and opened a folder which she'd had resting on her knees. "Tariq worked well into the early hours of this morning, chasing up CCTV footage of the man described by Jarrod Klein. He managed to put a name to the face." She picked up the image of the man and handed it to Harry, who looked at it, squinting a little, since he really needed his reading glasses to see it clearly. "His name is Ruslan Krivov," Erin continued. "He is part of a very small group – around six or so – members of the FSB who sometimes work just outside the perimeter of the formal organisation."

"So they're rogue."

"Not as a rule, but in this case, yes, I think we could class them as a rogue operation. Tariq suspects that Ruslan Krivov and his associate, another FSB agent by the name of Anton Garin, have already left the country."

"And what role has Elena Gavrik's son played in all this?" Harry was more than a little curious.

"There is no indication he is part of the splinter group, although my private thought is that he is the one pulling the strings, but from a safe distance. Being his parents' son provides him with a degree of ..."

"Immunity?"

"Yes. I'd say so. Of course, this is speculation at this point. The two who were directly responsible for the shooting appear to have no ... handler."

"So how did they know about Elena Gavrik's meeting with Ruth?"

"They have their ways," Erin replied. "It's likely they were listening in to Gavrik's phone calls, and possibly also following her wherever she went. I suspect that they were doing both. Either way, I think you'll agree that catching them is not a priority for us."

Harry sat back and stared across his desk at her. Not a priority? What about Ruth? What if she'd been badly injured, or even worse, killed? Her attitude left him feeling offended on Ruth's behalf.

"Harry, I have to remind you that our resources are not as generous as we'd like them to be. I am only thankful that Ruth's injuries were not worse than they are. We miss her on the Grid."

Given Ruth had only been absent from the Grid for less than half a day, Harry doubted that. "Very well," he said. "We leave the FSB to deal with their own," he said.

Harry made a move to see Erin out of his office, but she remained in her chair. "There's one more thing," she said, closing the file and resting her hands on it, her fingers laced together loosely. "In my phone conversation with the Home Secretary, he expressed a wish for the Russian talks to go ahead."

This time Harry could not remain quiet. Was the man mad? Did he have no level of sensitivity? "I would strongly advise against that, Erin. He didn't mention it to me when we spoke last evening."

"That's because he knew you'd be against it," Erin replied, giving nothing away.

"Section D will not be involved in this," Harry added. "It won't be safe for anyone, including any team members I make available."

"I agree."

This time Harry was really taken by surprise. He quite liked Erin personally, but he found her to be too prepared to toe the party line. Her reasons for doing so were no doubt related to her desired career trajectory, but he could not be sure. For her to agree with him was for her equivalent to an act of mutiny. "We can only sit by and watch," he said, this time rising from his chair.

"I'm already planning to look the other way," Erin replied, standing and heading towards the door.

Harry saw her out of his office and then stood watching her cross the Grid to her desk. The day had only just begun, and already it had been full of surprises.

* * *

Harry worked at his desk throughout the day, sending one of the junior analysts to buy him a sandwich when he remembered that he hadn't eaten since breakfast. So when, just before 6 o'clock that evening, he stood outside Ruth's hospital room, he took a deep breath to steady himself, and then his stomach rumbled with hunger. Through the small window in the door he could see Ruth sitting on the bed, her left arm still strapped to her side, her doctor standing beside her talking. He needed to be part of this, so he quickly knocked on the door and entered the room.

"Harry," Ruth said, her face beaming when she saw him.

He walked to the side of the bed and leaned down to kiss her on the cheek. He noticed Ruth's slight frown, but he wasn't about to kiss her properly when they had an audience. A quiet cough from the other side of the bed reminded them that they had company. "Take a seat, Mr Pearce," Ruth's doctor said, indicating the seat he had sat in waiting for Ruth to wake after her anaesthetic. "Ruth is insisting on going home today."

The discussion which followed became heated, but only because Ruth dug in her heels, apparently determined to recover in her own flat. In the end it was the doctor who made a suggestion which satisfied Ruth as well as Harry.

"You had this planned all along," she said, as they drove towards Harry's house. The car's heater was turned up and Ruth felt warm and drowsy and safe. They had travelled via Ruth's flat, collecting enough of her things to last the week, and then picked up a take out meal at the Indian two blocks from Harry's house.

"Not exactly, but I had asked .. your nurse .. if he could make himself available."

"And what did he say?"

"He said he'd be happy to be on call .. or duty, or words to that effect. I think he may also have used the word `patrol', but I may have imagined that."

Ruth giggled lightly. "To be honest, Harry. I was hoping you'd want me to recuperate in your house."

Harry quickly turned to look at her, surprise on his face. "Then why didn't you tell me? You must have known I'd say yes."

"I .. wasn't sure .. what we are to one another, Harry. It's all very well for me to stay over occasionally, and for us to be sleeping together, but I wasn't certain you'd want me under your feet night after night."

Harry turned the car into his street, and said nothing until he'd parked in his driveway. Ruth began to internally panic, worrying that she'd said the wrong thing. When he turned off the engine he removed his seat belt and turned towards her. Very slowly he reached out and cupped her face with his hand. "Ruth," he said, his voice gentle and quiet, "I can only speak for myself, but I am committed to you. I want you in my house, under my feet, as you put it, and in my bed. I want that for myself and for you. I want you, Ruth. I thought you already knew that."

Ruth didn't answer right away. She watched his face, taking in every word he'd spoken, turning them around in her mind, searching for a sign that he was being disingenuous. She could find no such sign. She reached out with her free hand and drew Harry's face closer. "Kiss me," she said, and he did. Their kisses were light, but loving. Kissing was all they'd be doing for at least a week. "So," Ruth said after some time, "what is it we are to each other? You still haven't said."

Harry waited, watching her closely in the darkened car, the only illumination coming from the street light outside Bob Rundle's house. "I can't decide that alone, Ruth. We have to do that together."

Ruth nodded. She already knew the answer, but they'd talk about it another time.


	16. Chapter 16

Next morning - Wednesday:

Ruth had crawled out of bed at 4 am, taking care to not wake Harry. She'd thrown her dressing gown over her shoulders and crept downstairs, thinking: _Note to self – in future take painkillers and glass of water to bed and leave on bedside table_. Once she'd taken two painkillers, she made herself a cup of tea, and then once the pain in her arm began to dull, she curled up on the sofa in the living room, covering herself with her dressing gown, and a single duvet which Harry clearly used to cover himself when he fell asleep in his comfy chair after a night on the whisky.

When Ruth woke again it was almost 8 o'clock, and Harry had left a note on the coffee table.

 _I have rung your `nurse',_ it read, _and he is just rarin' to go. I suggest you do some research into Britain's involvement in the Korean war. You don't want your conversations to be one-sided, do you? I'll be home as soon as I can. H xx_

No sooner had Ruth finished reading the note than she heard a gentle knock on the back door. She struggled to lift herself off the sofa, and by the time she had, Bob Rundle, dressed in his usual uniform of grey slacks, a white shirt – this time with no tie – and a pale grey cardigan, stepped into the living room, knocking on the door frame as he did so. "Ruth. I am here to make your breakfast."

"Really, you don't need to, Bob."

"Harry would never let me hear the end of it were I not to perform my duties."

"But -"

Bob put his hand up in a blocking gesture. "No buts, Ruth. I will make breakfast, and you will eat it, and then at one o'clock I will make your lunch. In between times I will make myself scarce. If you need me for anything at all, my number has been put into your phone, right under Harry's in speed dial. Hopefully Harry will be home in time to do something about dinner, but if not he will ring me and issue me my orders."

Bob's voice was gruff and no-nonsense, but Ruth detected an undercurrent of kindness. "Well," she said, standing awkwardly beside the coffee table, "I suppose that's that, then, isn't it?"

"It certainly is. Now .. you run along and get some clothes on, while I rustle up some bacon and eggs. Do you like bacon and eggs?"

Ruth nodded and smiled, and then headed upstairs. She threw off her pyjamas, and pulled on some knickers, then track pants, and because a bra was too complicated to put on with one hand, she pulled on one of Harry's t-shirts, and topped that off with one of her about-home jumpers. Then she pulled her fluffy slippers on to her feet. She felt slovenly, but very warm and comfortable.

Under orders from Bob she sat at the kitchen table and ate the bacon and eggs he'd cooked for her. She was moved to note he'd cut the bacon into small pieces which she could easily eat with a fork. She struggled a little with the egg, but while she ate Bob kept his back to her, fussing over scrubbing the frying pan in the sink filled with soapy water. Once she'd finished eating Bob made them both a mug of tea, adding milk and sugar to their individual tastes, and he sat at the table opposite Ruth while they drank their tea.

"I hope Harry's paying you for your trouble, Bob," Ruth began, not sure what to say to this man who was being so kind and attentive.

"I wouldn't hear of it," he said, rather crossly. "Harry and I are neighbours, and neighbours help one another in times of need. Harry was wonderful after Marjorie died. I must confess I was a bit useless, so he'd invite me over of an evening when he got home from work, and he'd make me sausages and eggs and mashed potato, and we'd then have a single malt before I returned to my empty house."

"I'm sorry about your wife, Bob. It must be difficult living without her."

"It is, but I've adapted better than I ever expected to, and that's largely because of Harry."

"You don't have children?"

"Yes. We had two. Our son, Bryan, lives in Norway. He's an engineer. Our daughter, Carole, married a Yank, and she lives in Boston. She's an academic, like her mother before her. They both came home for Marjorie's funeral, but they had to hurry back to their own lives. They've both been away so long that I no longer miss them. Bryan left the UK when he was twenty-three. He's now fifty-four. I barely know him any more."

Ruth didn't quite know what to say to that, so she remained silent. His ready acceptance of the continuing absence of his children left her feeling very sad.

She was soon to learn that Bob liked to talk, and that if no-one answered he'd simply keep talking. "I probably shouldn't be telling you this, but after Marjorie died and Harry would invite me over two or three nights a week, I wasn't the only one who was missing someone. One night – I seem to remember it was a Saturday – Harry and I had had a little too much to drink, and he told me about a woman he was missing. She'd had to leave the UK, and he said he'd probably never see her again. He had tears in his eyes when he spoke of her, but that may have been the drink." Ruth looked up at him to see him watching her. "That woman's name was also Ruth." He waited, and Ruth decided to say nothing unless asked directly. "Ruth is not an overly common name these days, so I've been wondering … was that woman you, Ruth?"

Bob's eyes held hers, and she nodded slowly. "I was away for almost three years. I wasn't expecting to ever come home, but .. I did."

"Thank you," Bob said, smiling, "for coming home. Harry's so much happier since you've been with him." He took a long time over sipping his tea, and then once he placed his mug back on the table he again looked across to Ruth. "Harry's like a son to me. Of course I'd never tell him that, but that's how I think of him. He matters to me, and I consider it a privilege to be asked to look out for him, and for those he loves."

Ruth nodded, chiefly because she could barely speak.

* * *

Harry arrived home just after 7, a take away meal in his hands. "Sorry I haven't time to cook something for you," he said, reaching down to kiss Ruth, and then rushing off to the kitchen.

Ruth followed him from the living room to the kitchen. "Sit down, Harry. We can have a drink before dinner, and you can tell me about your day."

Harry had already dropped the bags with the Chinese meal on the kitchen table, and when Ruth finished speaking, he turned to smile at her. "Listen to us, Ruth. We're like a regular 1950's Mr and Mrs. You're at home, waiting with my pipe and slippers, while I bring home the bacon."

"Don't become too fond of it, Harry. This time next week I expect to be doing my equal share of bacon gathering."

Harry stepped close to her, grasping her right hand in his. "And how's the arm?"

"Numb. I'm doped up to my ears. I'm not good with pain."

"So … how was Bob?"

"Bob? Bob was wonderful. It was a stroke of genius for you to ask him to .. play nurse."

"So you enjoyed his company?"

"Yes, although he didn't linger once he'd made my meals and cleaned up afterwards." Ruth looked away from Harry's eyes for a moment before she looked back at him. "You know I don't really need looking after. It's only my arm which is out of action. The rest of me is still capable of functioning normally. I'm quite happy for you to help me with dressing and undressing while you're home, but I don't require a chef."

"Maybe not, Ruth, but Bob is a man who needs to be needed. I thought I'd kill two birds .. and all that."

Ruth squeezed Harry's hand, and then reached up to kiss him lightly. "Despite what others may say, you're a lovely man, Harry Pearce."

"Just don't go spreading that around, Ruth." This time it was he who kissed her.

* * *

Ruth couldn't fault Harry as a part time carer. He ran her bath, then helped her to step into the bath and then he helped her out. He helped towel her body dry, and then squeezed toothpaste onto her toothbrush. Ruth insisted she could dress herself for bed, so he headed into the bedroom ahead of her, so that when she shuffled under the duvet he was sitting against his pillows on his side of the bed with his book on his knees, reading glasses perched on the end of his nose.

"It must be a good read," she commented, as she struggled to become comfortable.

"I enjoy reading about the history of warfare," Harry said, as he closed his book and grabbed Ruth's pillows and arranged them so that one of them provided support for her left arm and shoulder. "Better?" he said, smiling.

"Much." Harry reached behind him to turn out the light. "Leave it on, Harry. We need to talk. It's only 9.30."

Harry leaned back against his pillows and turned to face her. "What about?"

"Today was your first day back at work and you've said almost nothing about it." He sighed, pursing his lips. Ruth knew that look well. It meant he didn't want to talk about it. "Harry," Ruth said, turning as best she could to face him, "yesterday I was shot, and I would quite like to know the outcome of what happened. For instance, will there be an inquiry into the shooting?"

"Nothing has been said," Harry said quietly. "Calum produced his report on the event, and I emailed a copy to Towers. So far I've not heard anything from Towers, which represents good news." Harry breathed in heavily before he continued. He knew Ruth needed to know this, but he just wanted to slide down under the covers and lie close to Ruth while they fell asleep. "Special Branch found weapons parts – Russian and US made – in the basements of three different locations. All three were properties belonging to members of Arms For Peace, and those three men were arrested. Sasha Gavrik was also implicated as a Russian contact, so .. the talks are off."

"Just like that?"

"Towers had no option. Had he insisted the talks go ahead he would have been implicated in the weapons build up."

"I'm glad."

"That the talks are off?"

"Yes. I know I only met Elena Gavrik for a few short minutes, but I didn't trust her." Ruth turned to look at Harry, chiefly because she needed to know how he'd react to her assessment of his former lover.

"That's probably best, Ruth. I still have little idea why she agreed to meet you."

Ruth hesitated before answering. "I have an idea, Harry." Harry lifted his eyebrows in a question, so Ruth bowled ahead. "I didn't even have a chance to ask her why she decided to meet me. For all she knew I could have been setting her up .. in a trap."

"But she had cover, and quite a lot of it, according to Jarrod."

"Yes, she did. Harry ..."

"Mmm?"

"Whichever way I look at it I come to the same conclusion. I believe she was having you followed. Or me. Perhaps both of us."

"You were not aware of a tail?"

"No. I was concentrating on getting through your back door without being seen."

"It's possible," Harry said after a while. "Don't take this the wrong way, Ruth, but what were your impressions of Elena?"

Ruth darted him a quick look, but he his expression was impassive, giving nothing away. "I found her to be .. striking to look at .. even beautiful. She must have been stunning as a younger woman."

"Yes. She was." Again Ruth looked at him, and this time he returned her gaze, his eyes boring into hers. "Looks are only skin deep."

"But as a person," Ruth continued, "I wouldn't trust her at all. I found her to be cold and very contained, although on the surface she appeared friendly and caring." Harry nodded, and then looked away. "I think I understand what it was you … saw in her, Harry."

Harry turned to look into Ruth's eyes, a slight smile on his lips. "It was only ever physical, Ruth. It wasn't like … this." He moved his fingers back and forth between them. "It wasn't … real."

They watched one another closely – he searching for signs of jealousy or hurt in Ruth, and she for any residual interest in Elena from Harry. Ruth's attention was suddenly grabbed by the ringtone of her phone. She reached out to grasp it in her right hand. "It's Jerry," she said. "Should I answer?" When Harry nodded, she pushed the `answer' icon with her thumb, and then held the phone to her ear. "Hello, Jerry," she said, and then she listened for several minutes while Jerry spoke.

Harry watched as she said little, other than the occasional `yes', `no' or `I'm not sure'. When she uttered a few `that's goods', he knew that there had been positive developments. She smiled into the phone and then turned to look at him. "Oh, he's fine. At least he's back at work, which makes him happy. I'll tell him. Right, `bye." And then she pressed the end call icon and placed her phone back on the bedside table beside her painkillers.

"I take it that was good news," Harry said, leaning on his elbow to watch her.

"It was. Jerry says hello to you, and that his lawyer has managed to get the relevant blogs and newspapers to issue a retraction and an apology .. for printing your name. His lawyer insisted that the apology goes on page 1, although it's more likely to be on page 2. Either way, an official, printed retraction and apology is on its way."

Harry nodded. "And?"

"Two things. One is that when Melanie is discharged from hospital tomorrow morning Jerry is taking her somewhere he knows she will be safe and protected. He didn't tell me where, but he's being cautious by taking a car belonging to his younger brother, leaving his own car in London. Clearly he believes Melanie may still be in danger."

"Until she lodges her affidavit and speaks in court, then yes, her life is in danger. As the prosecution's chief witness she'll need the very best of protection, preferably a long way from London."

"The other thing .. equally as important," Ruth continued, "is that Sir Hector Percival's trial date has been set for the first week in November."

"That was quick."

"Well, that is still nearly five months away, with plenty of time to build the case. They can't go to trial without a water tight case."

"I know."

"So far the police have arrested both Clive Keeling and Seb Calder, along with Hector Percival, Lord Prentice, and three others. Melanie was able to name yet another three, while Seb Calder has a notebook which he kept throughout the nineties, just in case something like this were to happen. Jerry tells me Seb is able to name and identify as many as twenty-three men who were regulars at these .. gatherings, and that is still not all of them." Ruth looked away for a moment and slowly shook her head. "What kind of world is it we live in, Harry?"

"A complicated one." Harry reached out to put an arm across Ruth's shoulders, slowly pulling her towards him. "If I hurt your arm, just tell me."

"I'm so full of painkillers I can't feel a thing," she said, turning slightly so that she was able to face him, "so I'm rather drowsy."

In less than two minutes she was asleep, so Harry leaned over to turn out the light, slipping further under the duvet with Ruth nestled against his shoulder. Despite the disquiet in the world around them he could not have been happier.


	17. Chapter 17

Next morning – Thursday:

When Harry awoke it was still dark. He felt very warm and comfortable. As he moved from his sleeping state into waking he noticed several things. His face was resting against Ruth's hair; he was half erect and pressing himself against her buttocks; his left arm was curved around Ruth's body, his hand under her T-shirt, his thumb gliding along the underside of her bare breast; Ruth appeared to be fast asleep. He wanted to stay where he was, pressed against her, his fingers exploring under her clothing, his face close enough to her skin to almost taste her. He couldn't, because it wouldn't be right, wouldn't be fair to her. Very slowly he pulled himself away from her, so that no part of him had contact with her body. Then carefully, so as to not disturb her, he left the bed and headed to the en suite bathroom, where he ran the cold water in the hand basin and cupping his hands under the running water, he washed his face. He stood for a long moment, looking at the water as it ran from the tap, while water which dripped from his chin entered the stream, curling around the plughole and then down the drain.

Suddenly he felt rather than heard movement behind him, and before he could turn, Ruth had pushed herself against his back, wrapping her free hand around his waist so that her fingers pressed against his belly. "What's wrong?" she asked, her voice vibrating against his back.

He stood up straight, placing one hand over Ruth's. "I .. woke up, and decided it best I stay up." Harry felt Ruth breathe in and out several times before she spoke.

"I was awake before you, Harry. I know .. why you're here."

"I'm sorry, Ruth." He lifted his eyes to the mirror above the sink to see her watching him over his shoulder.

"I'm not. I've missed you." She pulled herself closer to his back. "Come back to bed."

He looked down, breaking eye contact with her. He wanted nothing more than to return to bed with her. "Perhaps I should sleep in the spare room."

With those words Ruth pulled away from him, breaking contact. He felt cold and bereft. "Suit yourself," she said, turning away. "It's time I took some more painkillers anyway," and she headed back to the bedroom.

Harry stood where he was, hunched over, his hands clenching the edge of the basin as he closed his eyes and took some deep breaths. How could he get this so wrong, and on so many different occasions? He watched himself in the mirror above the hand basin, wondering for the umpteenth time what it was Ruth saw in him, and why it was she was still attracted to him. He was too damaged, too messed up, too old for her. He should let her go, let her find someone more suited to her. Ruth deserved the best, and he feared he was not the best person for her. There was still so much she didn't know about him, and were she to know it all, she could not possibly love him. Perhaps she loved the person she thought he was. Were she to know everything about him, it would be all over between them.

He turned to use the toilet, and then washed his hands, and again patted water over his face, before he dried his hands and face and headed back to bed. Ruth was back in bed, and she was already asleep. Perhaps that was best.

* * *

Harry had almost come to the end of his team meeting when one of the admin staff knocked on the door as he opened it and said briskly, "Phone call for you, Harry. Urgent."

Oh, God, what if something had happened to Ruth? What if she'd fallen and Bob was panicking. It had just gone 9 o'clock, and so Bob would already have made breakfast for Ruth, and perhaps had already left. Ruth had a hospital appointment, but that was not until midday. Bob had offered to drive her, and after much faffing about, Ruth had agreed to him driving her.

He asked Erin to conclude the meeting while he hurried to his office.  
"Harry Pearce," he said into the phone.

"Harry, it's William Towers." _Bloody hell!_

"I was told this call was urgent, Home Secretary."

"Well, it is .. in a way. I'd like you to meet and talk with Ilya Gavrik. Today, and if you're busy, make yourself available."

"That's out of the question, and why me?"

"He asked for you specifically, and I think, for relations between our two countries, you should see him. I've already said yes on your behalf."

 _Bloody hell!_ It was only just before 9 am and the day was already a mess. He'd woken just before his alarm was due to go off at 5.30, and crept out of bed to the shower. Ruth had not woken, and he had left for work without checking on her, or leaving her a note. He'd played with the idea of leaving a note under the sugar bowl on the kitchen table - perhaps something silly and romantic – but Ruth's reaction to him in the early hours had dented his confidence. He'd decided to wait until he saw her face to face before he said anything.

"Very well," Harry said at last. "Where and when is the meeting to take place?"

"I told him you'd want to meet somewhere public," Towers replied.

* * *

At 10.45 Harry left his office, letting Erin know that he was to be off the Grid for perhaps as long as forty-five minutes to an hour. As soon as he stepped through the doorway from Thames House, he took his mobile phone from the pocket of his jacket and rang Ruth's number. It rang several times and then went to voice mail. For a moment Harry contemplated hanging up, but then remembered the reason he was ringing Ruth in the first place. He left his message, trying to keep his voice calm. "Ilya Gavrik has asked to see me, so I'm on my way to meet him now. Of course I'm not happy about it. I just wanted to hear your voice, and tell you I love you. I'll .. see you for dinner." And then he ended the call. It wasn't until he placed the phone back in his pocket that he realised something. How typical was it that the first time he told Ruth he loved her was in a message left on her voice mail. Small wonder that Ruth blew hot and cold with him; he hadn't a romantic bone in his body.

He strode along the embankment until he saw him, sitting on a bench by himself, staring out across the Thames. Ilya had aged, but then so had he. Harry slowed, took a deep breath and then placed a smile on his face. "Ilya," he said as pleasantly as he could muster. "It's been such a long time."

The two men greeted one another like old friends. No-one walking past would have imagined that they were two old cold war spies, warily greeting one another after several decades apart.

Ilya stood as they shook hands, and then indicated Harry should sit next to him. "I am glad you could spare the time to see me, Harry," Ilya said, his voice even deeper than last time they'd spoken over thirty years ago.

"You're looking well, Ilya," Harry said, smiling.

"You flatter me," Ilya replied, also smiling. "We have both aged, and neither of us are the men we once were. Age slows our reactions, and renders us invisible to the fairer sex .. or it does for some."

Harry noticed Ilya's lifted eyebrow, but decided to wait for Ilya to show his cards. He suspected his last comment was Ilya's way of saying that he knew of his relationship with Ruth.

Ilya once more stared out over the water, his hands thrust into his pockets. Harry mimicked his actions. "People like us," Ilya said at last, "really have no right to love. We have no right to happiness. I have a wife, a son, and a life many men would envy." He turned to look at Harry, but he was looking across the Thames to the Houses of Parliament. "But my wife is not like your Ruth."

Harry was surprised by such a direct comment, and turned to catch Gavrik watching him, a slight smile turning his thin lips. Harry was torn between two analogies – the cat that ate the cream versus a snake about to strike. He suspected that at that moment Gavrik was both.

" _My_ Ruth, Ilya? If only she was. She's my senior analyst, as you no doubt already know, but she's not mine."

"Come now, Harry. We know she's recuperating from her injury in your house."

"It's convenient for her. She has no-one else, and I have a large house."

"If you say so."

Again they fell silent. After a very long minute, Gavrik cleared his throat and began in a monotone. "I am a man with many secrets .. as are we all. I have done things I hope my son will never know about, but being the spy he is, I imagine he will one day discover the shortcomings of both his parents." Again there was silence. "I have been a spy in the old way, the way we both know about, but my wife … she has taken spying to the ultimate level in betraying her country. Elena has betrayed her country, her son, and in so doing she has also betrayed me. You must have asked yourself why she was prepared to meet with Ruth. It seemed a foolish thing to do."

"Two days ago … did you know where she was going?"

"No. She told me she was going shopping. Elena loves to shop, and she loves the shops in London most of all." Gavrik smiled at the memory. "I thought nothing of it. It was only after she had gone that my son told me of his concerns .. about his mother .. and her .. interest in some illegal activities in London."

"Are you talking about the importation of illegal arms?" Harry knew he was taking a risk by being so direct, but for him, the puzzle pieces were quickly falling into place.

Gavrik nodded slowly as he absently watched a group of young suited men walk past them. "Sasha has been keeping an eye on her .. on her activities. He has - how do you say it? - he has entered the viper's nest." He turned and smiled wanly at Harry. "I sleep beside my wife every night, and yet I feel I barely know her."

"Why are you telling me this?"

This time Gavrik's smile was wide. "Do you mean you don't know?"Harry nodded, puzzled. "I don't want you being angry with your Ruth over her meeting with my wife. Ruth asked for the meeting, and Elena must have seen it as an opportunity for information gathering, to determine how much Ruth knew."

Suddenly, the penny dropped for Harry. Bloody hell! Gavrik had sent a couple of his own FSB henchmen to follow Elena. He and his son were keeping tabs on her. Harry wanted to get up and head straight back to the Grid, where he knew how things worked, and who it was he was able to trust. He sat quietly, waiting for the Russian to continue, but nothing more was said. Harry felt the buzz of his phone on vibrate from inside his jacket pocket. He took out his phone, intending to not take the call, when he noticed the caller was Ruth. He hesitated for a moment. "Do you mind if I take this?" he asked.

"Of course not," Ilya said. "I will sit here and contemplate happier times while you speak to your caller."

Harry nodded and then stood, taking a few steps away from the bench. "Hi," he said, keeping his voice quiet.

"Have you spoken to Ilya?"

"I'm … still with him," he said, almost in a whisper.

"Sorry, Harry. I'll leave you to it. I'm waiting for Bob to take me to the hospital. I just needed to .. hear your voice."

"I'll see you tonight," Harry said, intending to end the call quickly.

"Just one more thing," she said.

"Yes?"

"I love you too."

Harry was so stunned he didn't know what to say. He heard the call end, but he still held the phone to his ear. What a time she had chosen to tell him. If it was even possible, her declaration of love was stranger than his own. After around ten seconds, during which he composed himself, ready again to face Ilya, he closed his phone and, returning it to his pocket, and again sat beside Ilya. "I have to go," he said, looking up into Ilya's cold eyes. "I am sorry about the talks, Ilya."

"Oh, I am not. I think, under the circumstances, to go ahead with the talks would have been a very bad idea. It would have been a betrayal of enormous proportions."

Harry agreed with him, but wasn't prepared to say so. When he stood, Ilya also stood. They shook hands rather formally, and then Harry turned and headed back along the embankment towards Thames House. What a strange meeting that was, and why had Gavrik insisted they meet? What was the man telling him? Harry was less than five minutes from Thames House when it hit him. Of course. What other reason would there be? Ilya had been providing a reason. A reason for what?

Harry stopped where he stood on the pavement, and the people behind him had to quickly step around him in order to avoid bumping into him. Harry didn't see their looks of irritation. He was taking his phone from his pocket and calling Erin, who answered after one ring. "Harry?" she said.

"Where's Dimitri? And Calum?"

"Cal's here, while Dimitri is on his way back from that -"

"Get Dimitri and Jarrod to St Thomas' Hospital. Fifth floor. They need to head straight to Elena Gavrik's room. Her husband is on his way to kill her."


	18. Chapter 18

_**A/N: This is the penultimate chapter. Essentially the story ends with this chapter, while the final chapter provides (what I feel is necessary) further information to tie off loose ends.** _

* * *

Thursday - late morning:

By the time Harry arrived back in his office Dimitri and Jarrod had been contacted and were on their way to the hospital. As backup, Erin had sent two junior officers who had been on their way to take over the surveillance of yet another suspicious series of activities, this time in north London. The younger officers were the first to arrive at the hospital. Erin had called ahead and warned hospital staff to deny entry to Elena Gavrik's husband. Her call was too late. Gavrik had slipped past staff and entered his wife's room, where he'd woken her and then strangled her with his bare hands.

Then he left. Dimitri was quickly crossing to the lifts when he met him, and Ilya had held his wrists together in front of him in a gesture of surrender. For the time being Gavrik was in a holding cell in the basement of Thames House. When Dimitri Levendis arrived back on the Grid he headed straight to Harry's office.

"Do you want to chat with our prisoner, Harry?"

"No, Dimitri. I have nothing to say to him. I met him today and he hinted at something. I just hadn't known what until it was too late. Is he talking?"

"When I left him he asked for a good tour guide to London."

Harry could read the confusion on Dimitri's face. "I think he means a book, Dimitri."

"Right. What do you think will happen to him?"

"One of two things. He could be arrested by our police and dealt with according to British law. A more likely outcome is that he will be flown to Moscow under FSB guard, and once there he is no longer our problem." Harry was tired, and he was tired of the Gavrik family. "Is there anything else, Dimitri?"

"Er .. I was wondering how .. Ruth is. If you've seen her, that is."

"You know very well that she's recovering under my roof, Dimitri, and she's coming along very well. She thinks she's ready to get back to work now, but it will be another four or five days before she can return to the unbridled delight that is life on the Grid."

Just then Harry's desk phone rang, and so Dimitri took that as permission to leave. As he opened the door he heard Harry say, "Home Secretary, what can I do for you?"

* * *

It was almost 8 pm by the time Harry arrived home. He had never been so relieved to cross his own threshold. The world outside his house seemed difficult and troubled. After he'd kissed Ruth and placed their take away meal on the table, he shared that thought with her.

"The world outside this house has always been that way," she replied. "It's just that information is instant and available, and that includes the information warning us of threats against us. It's really not a lot different to the way it's always been."

Not wanting to focus on the Grid or MI5, or what had happened that day, Harry redirected their conversation. "How did you go at the hospital?"

"Good. In case you haven't noticed I'm no longer strapped up like an Egyptian mummy, but I have this sling .. for comfort. I am now able to sleep without having my arm strapped to my side."

"I noticed, Ruth," Harry said, serving out their dinner on plates.

"I need a fork, Harry."

"I know," he said, glancing up at her. "I did look at you, Ruth. I did notice."

"I also have to reduce my analgesics. The codeine is addictive."

"Good."

"That it's addictive, or that I have to cut it down?"

"Both." Harry sat down, having placed forks next to their plates. Picking up his own fork he smiled across the table at Ruth, and then looked down, not quite sure of how best to broach the next subject. He waited until they had each eaten two mouthfuls and then decided it was best to dive in at the deep end. "Something rather .. dramatic happened today."

"Oh? To do with Ilya Gavrik? How did it go?"

And so in a voice devoid of emotion Harry told her about his meeting with Gavrik, and then the eventual outcome. "There was nothing any of us could have done. Gavrik is in a cell in Thames House .. until it's decided what should be done with him."

"Well, as horrible as that is, I'm not .. upset about it. I told you I didn't trust her, Harry. I have a nose for deceit."

"I know."

"And what does the Home Secretary have to say?"

"He blames me."

" _Why_?"

"As he sees it I should have picked up Ilya's intent while we were on the embankment. I was not `on the ball' ... his exact words."

"Oh, sod him."

Harry smiled to himself as he stabbed a piece of chicken with his fork. "My thoughts exactly."

* * *

Later, when they were both lying on their backs in bed under the duvet, the light out, goodnight kisses behind them, the memory of the morning's misunderstanding slowly emerged.

"About early this morning," Ruth began nervously, her voice quiet. "I .. shouldn't have said .. what I said to you."

Harry had no reply to that, the constant activity of his working day having replaced the dull hurt of their encounter in the bathroom in the early hours. "It's all right. No need to apologise."

Harry felt Ruth turn her head and look his way. "It's not all right. What I said, and then did was cruel, and I know I hurt you." He gave her time to finish what she wanted to say. She needed it, even if he believed that he didn't. "I suspect that at the time, I wanted to hurt you, and I'm really sorry for that. It's not a good way to behave, especially as .. this … what we have, what we are ..."

"Partners?"

"Is that what we are, Harry?"

"It's what I hope we are. It's what we are inside my head."

"I haven't been game enough to give it a name."

"Well .. now I have, how does it sound to you?"

"I rather like the sound of it, but .. you didn't let me finish."

Harry turned his head to see her watching him. "Sorry. Go on."

"I spent most of today thinking about it." Harry waited patiently for her to continue . "I think that what I did by dismissing you and leaving the bathroom was another form of .. running from you .. from what I perceived as … rejection."

"Rejection? When?"

"When you suggested sleeping in the spare room. I don't want you sleeping in the spare room."

"Very well. I'll sleep here, with you."

"Good."

They still had a long way to go. Opening up to another was still terribly awkward and uncomfortable for them both. They were each so used to simply doing what suited them, and without having to consider another. Ruth had found George easy to live with. He'd been pleasant and accommodating, as well as grateful to have found someone to help him look after Nico, to share his bed and his life. She had not fully opened her heart to George, but with Harry she needed to be honest and open. Total honesty left Ruth feeling uneasy and exposed, but if she wanted them to make it together she had to let Harry see who she really was. Anything less was unacceptable, as well as dishonest.

Feeling the need to lighten the mood Harry changed the subject."And what kind of driver is Bob?"

Ruth gave a brief laugh. "A painfully careful one. I told him I could take a taxi, but he wouldn't hear of it. Oh, and he talks to all the other drivers, even though they can't hear him." Ruth waited a few moments before continuing. "You hadn't warned me that Bob had led such a busy and interesting life."

"One thing about which I should have forewarned you is that I'm almost certain not all of his stories are true. I fail to see how one man could have done everything he claims to have done."

"I'm prepared to give him the benefit of the doubt. I just hope that when you're 82 you don't tell endless stories about your time in MI5. I don't think I could bear it." Harry was stunned into silence. Ruth had just made a statement which suggested she was prepared to live with him for the remainder of his life. "Bob is a talker and all he needs is someone to listen. I have no problem listening to him, Harry. It's not difficult. I find him immensely entertaining." Harry said nothing. He was still mulling over what she'd said about being with him when he was in his 80's (were he to make it that far.) Did she really mean it, or was it one of those throw away lines that people sometimes use in conversation, more parable than truth?

"I promise that once I leave MI5 I will never speak of it again," he said lightly.

"That's a bit extreme. I don't expect that."

Very carefully, Harry turned on to his side so that he faced Ruth, who had gone back to staring at the ceiling. "Then what is it you expect, Ruth?"

Ruth slowly turned her head to look at him. Despite there being no light on, their eyes had adjusted to the dark so that they could see the other quite clearly. "I expect … that we will have a good life together, Harry .. once we figure out how to .. be around each other."

"Do you mean that?"

"Which bit?"

"All of it." As he spoke, Harry reached out to cup Ruth's jaw with his hand. He knew that nothing would happen between them on that night. Ruth was still recovering. Only three days earlier she had undergone surgery on her arm. He would wait.

Ruth nodded and Harry lightly brushed her bottom lip with his thumb – back and forth, back and forth. "You know what we said to each other today?" she asked. He nodded. How could he forget? "Did you mean it?"

"Of course I meant it. You must know I love you." Ruth nodded and smiled into his eyes. Harry had the thought that they were doing an awful lot of nodding and not a lot of kissing. In an attempt to rectify that imbalance he very carefully leaned across and placed his lips on hers. The kiss was soft and sweet. It was a loving kiss. "We need to sleep," he said, and again Ruth nodded.

Minutes had passed, and Harry was almost asleep when he heard Ruth say his name. "Yes?" he replied.

"Can I ask you one more question?"

"If you must."

"It's just that it's easier to ask this in the dark."

"Go ahead, Ruth."

"Have you had any .. negative reactions from others?"

"Ruth, surely you already know that I attract negativity on a daily basis."

"What I meant was .. has anyone mentioned the false accusations .. to do with the other Harry Pearce."

Oh, that. With all the fuss over Ilya and Elena Gavrik, Harry had almost forgotten about what had happened only six days earlier. "Only one person has made .. a reference to it in a way which suggests they perhaps believe in my guilt."

He felt Ruth turn towards him, so he turned his head to look into her eyes. "Who? Who would think such a thing?"

"No-one important. It was Barry Rudd, from Six. I ran into him when I went to meet one of the new section heads at Vauxhall Cross. Barry said something off colour, which he thought was funny. His opinion of me is not important. I fully expect certain members of the JIC to ... blank me, but that might be a good thing. The less I have to interact with some of them the better. Most people I know have not mentioned it, or they have gone out of their way to tell me they never believed it to be true."

"Thank you."

"For what?"

"For telling me, Harry. I'm glad that people have faith in you .. in your integrity. I'm relieved that it's not only me who believes in you."

"Mmm .. can we sleep now?" Harry felt Ruth's hand search for his under the duvet, so he reached out and took her hand, and then closed his eyes. A few minutes later he felt Ruth's hand squeeze his.

"What?" he asked.

"And I love you too." He barely heard her, but she had said it .. aloud, and in his presence.

"Mmm, that's good."


	19. Chapter 19

_**A/N: This is the final chapter of this story. Thanks so much to all who have commented, either in review or in messages. Initially, given some of the subject matter, this was not an easy fic to write, but I had to find a way to tell it so that the story was told, but without sensationalism.**_

 _ **And the game of cricket gets a mention in this chapter. There are 11 members in a cricket team (this is relevant to this story) and you'll have to look up LBW on Google, as it's become a rather complicated ruling for dismissing a batsman .. meaning there isn't the space here to go into it. TBH, it's not necessary for you to know what it means, other than a ruling for a batsman being given out.**_

* * *

4½ weeks later – Saturday afternoon – Harry's house:

The week that Ruth returned to work saw her moving back to her own flat. Of course, Harry had complained. "Why not stay here? We can easily go back to yours to get more of your things."

"I need some time .. to myself," she'd said, avoiding eye contact with him. "I'll come back here .. to live with you, if that's what you want -"

"It's what I want, Ruth."

"I will, but I have to have some time to .. adjust to the changes in my life. Everything is happening rather fast."

"Ruth .. we've known one another for over eight years. We are hardly moving at the speed of light. But I do understand what you're saying."

"When I eventually move in with you, I want to be sure … about everything."

"About us?"

"I'm already sure about us. It's myself I'm not sure about. I can be difficult to live with, and I have a tendency to change my mind on a whim."

Of course, he already knew that, and he was prepared to take the risk. He had already risked so much for her, but nowhere near as much as she had risked for him.

In the end Ruth spent just two weeks on her own in her flat, travelling to work each day by tube, visiting Harry in his home two nights a week. At the end of the two weeks she had rung him, begging for him to come and get her. "I miss you," she had said, "and the bed is cold without you. I thought I was asserting my independence, but I now see I was just being stubborn and resistant to change."

Harry breathed out very quietly, relieved that she was coming around to his way of viewing them. He'd been annoyed that she'd needed that two weeks on her own, but he'd also understood.

Harry smiled all the way back to his house from Ruth's. They had piled as many of her possessions as they could fit into his vehicle. The rest could wait until the following weekend. Once she was reinstated in his home she never wanted to be anywhere else. She just had to try once more to live alone, and despite the advantages, she much preferred being with Harry.

At the beginning of her third week back at work Ruth was rung by William Towers, who again asked her to meet him for lunch. This time she was summoned to his office. When she asked Harry for advice, he shook his head. "This is between you and him, Ruth. If he offers you a job I suggest you take it."

Towers had been on fine form, beaming widely at her as she entered his inner sanctum. "I hope you don't mind me dragging you in here, Ruth. I have rather a busy day ahead of me. I've asked for tea and scones to be served in ten minutes."

"I also have a busy schedule today, Home Secretary. I've been training the two new analysts you sent to Section D."

"I hope you don't mind. I know Harry is rather upset about it, but I have assured him that the extra funding will be provided. How are they managing the workload?"

"The analysts?"

"Yes."

Ruth hesitated, allowing her mind to wander through the past two weeks. Kareem was progressing well, and could be left alone to do a complete threat assessment, while Hannah was slower and more thorough, which wasn't a bad thing. The two of them worked differently, but still required her guidance and encouragement. "They're .. both coming along nicely, Home Secretary. I'm already able to hand some of my workload to them."

"Ah, excellent, excellent. That was my plan." Towers sat back in his chair and observed Ruth for a long moment. Feeling like a specimen under a microscope, Ruth shifted uncomfortably in her chair, staring unseeing at the early David Hockney black and white lithograph on the wall above where they sat. "I wonder have you given any thought to my suggestion that you consider what your ideal job might be."

"Not really. I was off work for a week after I was shot, and then I had so much catching up to do when I got back to work that I hadn't thought, `I wonder what I would rather be doing than this?' I quite like my job as it is, Home Secretary."

"I rather thought you might say that. Harry has the wool pulled over the eyes of you all."

Ruth wanted to object, to defend Harry, but she said nothing more, and listened while Towers outlined his ideas for her new role.

In the end she was rather surprised by his suggestion. It was something different, and would allow her to move around, something she had little time for in her current position. That night she spoke to Harry.

"He'll send you all around the world?" Harry said, emptying the bottle of wine into their two glasses.

"Not necessarily all around the world. He suggests that I regularly liaise with the top analysts in the security services of our allies, and then bring some of that information – techniques, reporting measures, software – back here. I could probably do that quite effectively from my desk, but I'll not be turning down an opportunity for travel."

"And nor should you."

"Mostly I'll be providing a point of coordination for all the information coming through the different departments of Britain's security services. It will be a mammoth task to set it up, but once it's running I'll barely be needed."

Harry had taken some time to answer. "Do you want to take this job, Ruth?"

"I'd like to at least try, but I don't wish to leave you short staffed."

"We'll be fine. Once the two new analysts are ready, you'll be free to begin .. if that's what you want."

So Ruth had accepted the position with view to beginning in late August, still nine weeks away. Harry knew he would miss her, but he had no right to prevent her from using her considerable skills in any way she could. He'd spend his evenings and weekends with her, and he was looking forward to that.

* * *

One Sunday afternoon almost five weeks after Ruth had been shot, she and Harry were sitting on the sofa watching an international cricket match on TV – or Harry was watching it, while Ruth had a book open on her knees, occasionally looking up whenever Harry became animated – when she heard her mobile phone ringing from where she'd left it on the kitchen table. Harry seemed unaware of her leaving the room to answer her phone, so that when she returned he appeared surprised that she'd been away from his side.

"That was Jerry Nevill," she said. "He'll be around in around forty-five minutes."

"Here?"

"Yes, here. He wants to fill me in on what's happened with Melanie, so I'm rather intrigued. Do you mind?"

"Of course not," Harry replied, smiling across at her, reaching for her with one hand. Ruth allowed him to draw her closer, and so she slid a hand around his neck and planted a kiss on top of his head.

"He asked could he speak to both of us."

Harry nodded, his eyes still on the cricket match. Suddenly he called out. "That was LBW. _Whaaat_? You can't be serious! He was _out_." Remembering that Ruth was still standing close to him, Harry looked up at her. "Did you see that, Ruth? Bloody Rahul Dravid got away with a clear LBW. He knew he was out, so the decent thing would have been to walk. Bloody hell. What do we have to do to get this lot out? And the umpire is an Aussie, so it appears that India have twelve men on their team."

Ruth smiled down at him. Whilst she had been sitting beside him while he'd watched the cricket, all she knew about it were that the English team were playing India, and despite cricket being a completely bewildering game, apparently England were winning. How Harry knew that England were winning was beyond her. Perhaps in time she would understand the game, but she'd not be betting on that.

By the time Jeremy Nevill rang the doorbell Harry had muted the TV, and together they had prepared an afternoon tea of coffee and cake, the latter having been the result of Ruth's baking efforts only that morning.

"It's good to see you both," Jerry said, smiling from one to the other. Ruth was relieved that the usual frown which puckered his forehead had been replaced with the appearance of calm and contentment. Ruth surmised that Jerry had had a brief holiday away from the city. They sat for a few moments while Harry poured a cup of coffee for each of them. "You two seem settled," Jerry added, smiling from one to the other.

"I'm sure your visit is about more than checking up on Harry and me," Ruth replied.

"It is. I've just had a bit of a break away from London. I drove Melanie to the country, and I've left her there."

"I'm assuming you didn't just dump her by the roadside, hoping she'll find her way home," Harry said.

"Not at all." Jerry sipped his coffee, which was scalding hot, just the way he liked it. "Ruth, do you remember me telling you about my grandfather's farm, and how when my father took his annual holidays we'd visit for a week every year?"

Ruth nodded. "Near Gloucester, wasn't it?"

"Yes. A stone's throw from the New Forest. My father inherited the farm, and when he retired last year he and my mother sold their house in Bristol and moved there. They've never been happier."

"I take it you took Melanie there .. to recuperate?"

"Yes, I took her there. I had already contacted my mother and asked her what she thought of the idea. She'd always wanted a daughter, and all she got were three ugly sons, so she was keen to take Melanie in. Until three years ago Mum had worked as a social worker in Bristol. Most of her work was with young adults at risk, many of which were homeless, and she misses it. I thought she could do with a new .. project. She's a good woman, my Mum."

"So Melanie is living with your parents? How will she support herself?" Forever practical, Ruth was worried about details.

"I'd planned for it to be just an hiatus, a few weeks away from London until the media have calmed down. I stayed there with her, just to see how she adapted to being with my folks, because until four weeks ago, they'd not met one another. I shouldn't have worried. Melanie is used to fitting in with others. What surprised me most was how well she and Mum hit it off. It's as though Melanie is the daughter my mother never had. Last year Mum began breeding alpacas, and Melanie has taken to it like she's been doing it all her life. Mum's teaching her the ropes, and it won't be long before Mel will be able to handle the alpacas on her own. Dad has a few horses and some sheep, as well as hens and ducks, but it was the alpacas which Melanie took to."

"So she'll be staying there?" Harry asked.

"It looks like it .. at least until the court cases are over and the scum are locked up. She feels safer in Gloucestershire, where she can watch the sun rise over the trees. She's even put on a little weight. I don't think she or my parents are planning too far ahead."

"What about her flat?" Ruth asked, offering Jerry a piece of cake, which he took and placed on his plate.

"She was renting, so with her approval I'm planning to move in, because my lease is up in a few weeks, and my neighbourhood is a bit on the rough side. I can look after her flat if and until she needs it again. My nose tells me she won't, and even if she gets tired of the alpacas, she'll not want to come back to London."

"I can't say I blame her," Harry replied. The past few weeks had been so busy that he'd had little time for contemplating the false accusations against him. He felt a sharp shudder go through him as he thought about where his life may have gone had Melanie not been sent copies of the videos the perpetrators had filmed of their activities.

* * *

Around an hour later Ruth showed Jerry to the door. "Keep in touch, won't you?" she said. "I'd like to know that Melanie is doing well. I _need_ to know. You'll give me regular updates?"

"Of course, but not too regular. I have a feeling that Mr MI5 in there is a jealous man, and I'm rather fond of my front teeth."

By the time Ruth made it back to the living room Harry was again watching the cricket, tension evident in the way he sat forward, his elbows on his knees. "Idiot!" he called out as Ruth lowered herself on to the sofa beside him.

"Who's an idiot?"

He turned, surprised to see her sitting beside him. "That umpire, the Australian one. He's biased. We can't trust those colonials, Ruth. They're all outlaws."

"I'm sure that's not true," she said quietly, watching Harry's face as it changed with every ball bowled - from joy to horror to outrage.

Ruth turned her eyes back to the cricket just in time to see the players walking off the field. "It's all over for the day?" Ruth asked.

"Bad light."

"The light is bad, so they all go home? What kind of sport is this?"

This time Harry turned and looked hard at Ruth. Was she taking the piss? Was she sending up the noble sport of cricket? "You can't see the ball when the light's bad, Ruth."

"That's hardly a _manly_ game, Harry. Rugby is played when it's pouring rain."

Harry watched Ruth for a moment longer than necessary. God, he loved her, and she had chosen him. How lucky was he? "I vote we go to the kitchen and rustle up dinner," he said, his eyes still holding hers. "I know how to make chicken and .. something."

"That will make it an early dinner," she replied, already knowing where the conversation was headed.

"I thought that if we get dinner out of the way, we can have an early night."

"By early night, you mean …?"

"Yes, Ruth, that is what I mean."

"Then what are we waiting for?"

Ruth turned and headed straight to the kitchen. Harry had to almost run to catch up. After all, early nights were his favourite kind of night.

 _Fin_


End file.
